


To Fall

by MaverikLoki



Series: TnT [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anders wants Hawke, Angst, Hawke wants Fenris, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More angst, against his better judgment, and Fenris ends up wanting Anders, anders still doesn't have a cat, because I'm a sadist when it comes to these two apparently, isabela still doesn't have pants, pre-fenders - Freeform, slightly OCD!Hawke, why is everybody glowing?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3246440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverikLoki/pseuds/MaverikLoki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hadriana is somewhere in Kirkwall. Fenris wants her dead, and this illness isn't going to stop him.</p>
<p>From a prompt asking for someone (Anders) taking care of a sick!Fenris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Line

**Author's Note:**

> I was going to post this tomorrow, but penbrydd is drunk!blogging as Fenris right now, I'm sober!replying as Anders, and I'm too fucking amused to sleep.
> 
> ANYWAY. This is a prequel, written after "Silence" but goes before "The Tempting and the Tempted" chronologically. It deals mostly with Fenris' companion quests. Some minor parts of it are AU, but the important stuff is the same.

There was a hole in the roof. A small one, compared to the one over the entryway, but that one wasn’t bleeding sunlight right into Fenris’ eye. Fenris took another pull from the wine bottle and glared up at the beam of sun, willing it to move first.  
  
“Morning, Fenris. Been redecorating without me?” Hawke’s smoky voice filled the room, echoed off the stone floors. His footsteps were careful around cracked tile and dead bodies.  
  
“Never,” Fenris said into his wine bottle.  
  
Hawke’s face blocked the annoying ray of sun, and Fenris squinted up at him. “Are you on the floor?” he asked.  
  
“It would seem so.”  
  
“You are _literally_ three steps away from a bed.”  
  
“Maybe I’m communing with the mushrooms,” Fenris replied flatly. “I don’t wander into your house and criticize your habits, now do I?”  
  
“Well, I don’t lie on the floor. With fungus.”  
  
Fenris grunted and took another sip.  
  
“ _Please_ , can I clean in here?” There was a plaintive note in Hawke’s voice.  
  
“No.” Another sip. “Why are you here, Hawke?” Not that he minded the man’s company, necessarily. For a mage, he was almost tolerable and pleasing to look at, but he only ever came by whenever he wanted something.  
  
Hawke moved away, and the annoying blot of sun was back.  
  
“The Viscount wants me to play errand boy for the Qunari, and I could use your help,” he said.  
  
He turned his head to see the mage gathering loose floor tiles and arranging them into neat piles. “Put them down,” he growled. Hawke huffed and set the tiles aside. He looked around, wringing his hands, and Fenris wondered how much the mess truly bothered him. “You want my sword arm, then.”  
  
Hawke paced out of his line of sight. Fenris could hear him rustling around with something but didn’t bother to look. “Preferably both arms, if you can spare them.”  
  
“What about Carver? Can’t you take him?”  
  
The rustling sounds stopped. “Carver won’t be joining our outings for the foreseeable future.”  
  
At the strain in Hawke’s voices, Fenris sat up, blinking the spot of sun from his eyes. “Is he alright?” he asked. He hadn’t seen the Hawkes since they’d returned from the Deep Roads. Had something happened while they were away?  
  
“Oh, he’s peachy,” Hawke said with false cheer. “More specifically, he’s a peachy Templar.”  
  
Fenris raised his eyebrows. That was a ballsy move on Carver’s part. If the boy didn’t annoy him so much, Fenris would applaud him, if not in front of his brother.  
  
Hawke brushed his hair back out of his face. “So will you come with me, Fenris? I could use your help.”  
  
Using the puppy eyes was unfair, but Fenris was already going to agree. Then he saw what Hawke was doing.  
  
“Are you making the _bed_?”  
  
“Yes. Now stop judging me and get your sword.”

* * *

The poor were calling it a plague. Anders knew it as a particularly virulent strain of the flu, which meant his cots had to hold more sick people and their bodily fluids than he would have liked.  
  
“It’s those blighted Qunari,” Anders’ current patient said, an old man with shriveled skin. Counting the beats of his pulse, the mage was more focused on his rattling breathing than his words. “With their foreign diseases.”  
  
“No, I’m afraid we have ourselves to blame for this,” Anders replied. “If anything, the Qunari are likely to get the sniffles from _us_.”  
  
Now that he thought about it, the Arishok sneezing would go a long way towards making him less fearsome. Especially if it was one of those tiny, girly sneezes. Maybe he should have a few of his patients breathe on the Qunari as a favor to the Viscount.  
  
The old man in his care coughed, and it shook his bent and sweaty frame. Anders grimaced at the spray of mucus and sent a wave of healing into the man’s lungs, clearing some of the congestion, the sores in his throat from coughing, the raging headache.  
  
“Maker bless your soul, boy,” the old man said, slumping in relief.  
  
“I just helped with the symptoms,” Anders said. “Now, you’re not cured or anything. You need rest and—”  
  
“Yes, yes, so my daughter’s been saying.”  
  
Anders smiled. “Then I’d listen to her. Otherwise, you’ll have to come back here, and I’m sure she’s much better to look at than I am.”  
  
That earned him a laughing cough from the old man.  
  
“Oh, I don’t know,” said a voice from behind Anders, a voice that never failed to send a thrill down his spine. “Our healer has a certain roguish charm, don’t you think?”  
  
Anders turned to Hawke, a grin on his face. A grin that he wrestled into submission when he saw that Fenris was with him, scowling around the room like the architecture had done him personal harm.  
  
“I bet a few of the ladies who come here aren’t even sick half the time,” Hawke went on with a wink and a rakish smile. Anders flushed and looked away.  
  
“Hawke,” he said, clearing his throat. “You really shouldn’t be here. My patients are contagious.”  
  
Hawke hummed, brow furrowing as he looked around. “Your clinic _does_ seem busier than usual,” he said. “Do you need any help?”  
  
A sweet, if ultimately empty gesture. “Do you know any healing, ah… ‘skills’?” he asked, crossing his arms.  
  
“Well…”  
  
“Thank you, Hawke, but no. I’d rather you got out of here before you caught anything.” He knelt to examine a child, her mother wringing her hands anxiously beside her. “So hurry up and tell me what you need. Unless of course you only came down here call me handsome, in which case, please do it once more before you go.”  
  
“Come, Hawke,” said Fenris, lip somehow curling even higher. “We do not need the mage.”

“I’m running an errand for the Viscount,” Hawke said. Gaze flitting to the people about him, he bent so that he was shoulder to shoulder beside Anders, in front of the sniffling girl. Anders could smell Hawke’s sweat, and he felt his skin flush to the tips of his ears. “An important errand. The kind that could put us and mages in general in his favor.”  
  
“Oh, I bet Fenris would _love_ that.”  
  
Hawke looked rueful for a moment. “He’ll live, I suspect.”  
  
Anders looked into blue eyes, then down at his lips, noticing the scabbed split at the corner from a recent injury. Anders ached to heal it, to touch him. He cleared his throat and turned back to the little girl.  
  
“Let me take care of the worst patients and give instructions to Lirene. Now get out of here. I’ll meet you at your place.”  
  
His place. Funny to think of the old Amell estate as Hawke’s now, even if he was still in the process of moving in. Hawke grinned and clapped Anders on the shoulder, and Anders could feel the heat of his touch long after he’d left.  
  
Maker, he was doomed.

* * *

“We should call ourselves the Mage Brigade!”  
  
Wind off the ocean tousled Fenris’ hair as he glared at Anders, who glanced at him and added, “And Fenris.”  
  
Merrill giggled, and Fenris ignored the wink Hawke sent his way. These ‘quests’, as Hawke liked to call them, usually went better when Fenris ignored the Abomination. Better still if he wasn’t there at all. He wondered if he could kill the mage and make it look like Merrill’s fault.  
  
“Hawke,” he growled at the mage beside him.  
  
“Yes?” A disarming smile turned Fenris’ way.  
  
“If this is some pro-mage stunt because of Carver, I’ll have no part of it.”  
  
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a _stunt_ ,” Hawke wheedled. “Just a group of mages and their handsome elf companion on an innocent, likely dangerous outing protecting the people of Kirkwall. If their selfish heroism makes the Viscount think more highly of mages, _well_ , then that’s just an added bonus!”

Fenris gave him a flat look. “Here I thought you were just hoping to flirt with the Abomination some more.”  
  
Hawke laughed and wrapped an arm around Fenris, pulling them tight together so that their shoulders and hips brushed as they walked. Then Hawke’s voice was at his ear and making his neck flush with heat. “Now, we all know I’d much rather be flirting with you,” he said, voice a sultry growl.  
  
“We do?” Anders muttered behind them.  
  
During the expedition, Hawke had starting making similar overtures, finding more and more reasons to touch Fenris, to tease him. Fenris had hardly noticed at first, until a night by the campfire, sharing body heat and the last of Fenris’ smuggled wine between them, fingers fumbling and tangling around the neck of the bottle. There had been soft laughter, a shared glance, shared breath—  
  
—and the shriek of a hoard of Darkspawn. They’d stopped lighting campfires after that.  
  
But the Darkspawn were behind them now, so Fenris threw Anders a smirk over his shoulder as he wound an arm around Hawke’s waist.  
  
“Is that so?” he asked in a purr.  
  
The thunderous look Anders sent him was worth the earlier trouble.  
  
The warning arrow shot at their feet, however, was not. Fenris pulled away from Hawke, drawing his sword as the mages pulled out their staves. He wondered how many more times their overtures would be violently interrupted.  
  
“Messere Hawke, is it?” Fenris looked up at the cliff face to their left, to the man—the mage—standing over them. “It seems you are in possession of stolen property. Back away from the slave now, and you’ll be spared.”  
  
At the word _slave_ , Fenris’ blood ran cold. The lyrium in his skin itched and burned, and he trembled under the will to restrain himself.  
  
An archer appeared beside the slaver mage, while four brigands rounded the corner to hem them in.  
  
Fenris was about to show him where he could stick his staff, restraint be damned, when Hawke shouted, “Fenris is a free man!” Hawke looked livid, knuckles white against his staff and the air smelling of Fade and smoke as he readied to make them _burn_.  
  
Despite the pull of magic, Hawke’s anger on his behalf warmed Fenris, and the elf smiled. He hadn’t had someone to fight for him before, not since…  
  
The smile died on Fenris’ lips.  
  
“One last chance!” called the slaver. “You can either hand over the slave, or we can take him by force! My lady Hadriana will not be pleased.”  
  
_Hadriana._  
  
Memory hit him like a wall: the smell of perfume, sickly sweet; the drag of nails down lyrium scars.  
  
His markings lit, the Fade opening around him and superimposing itself upon the world of mortals, pathways opening for him to traverse between the two. A pride demon reared its head and scented the air, followed by a pair of rage demons, but Fenris ignored them.  
  
If she was here, he would kill her.  
  
“ _I am not your slave_!” Fenris roared, and the rage demons cackled.  
  
The fight was a blur. Spells erupted all around him, Merrill’s earth magic, Hawke’s force, and a blue bubble of protection from Anders. He was used to fighting alongside mages, if not by choice, so he wove his way in and out of the fray with ease, protecting his companions when the brigands got too close.  
  
He was not used to being the only warrior in the group, however, and the red burst of pain at the back of his skull came as a surprise.


	2. In Battle

The voices of demons echoed in Fenris’ ears, the seared, ozone scent of the Fade burned into his nostrils. Hands on skin leaked magic into him, sparking along lyrium line conduits.  
  
“ _Domine_?” he breathed, squinting past the blur of blood.  
  
A snort of a laugh above him. “' _Domine'_ , am I? That’s new.”  
  
The bones of his skull knit, snapping back into place in crackles of pain. Then he recognized the voice, remembered the slavers, the name _Hadriana_.  
  
Fenris shoved Anders’ hands away, scurrying back and away despite the lurch of nausea in his belly. He didn’t realize he was growling, teeth bared.  
  
Gold eyes were wide, hands still upraised and glowing.  
  
“Fenris, I’m not finished—”  
  
“Yes, you are!” he snapped. He grabbed Anders by the collar and yanked him forward, snarling into his face. “Don’t you _ever_ use your filthy magic on me without my permission!”  
  
Hawke was a hovering shadow over the pair of them, brows knit and eyes wide with worry. “Fenris—”  
  
“Sure!” Anders snapped, twisting Fenris’ fingers out of his clothes. “Next time I’ll just leave you to die in pieces, shall I? Maker knows the world would be better off!”  
  
“ _Anders_ —”  
  
“Is that a threat, mage?”  
  
“No, it’s—! Ugh, _Maker_ , you are impossible!” Anders pushed up and to his feet and walked away, his shoulders a rigid line.  
  
Hawke knelt in his place and touched Fenris’ arm. “Are you alright?” he asked. Blue eyes were still round with concern, and Fenris’ skin prickled from Hawke’s proximity.  
  
Fenris considered. His head still smarted. He could feel blood matting his hair, but the nausea and confusion had passed. “I am whole,” he answered.  
  
Hawke’s hand was still on his arm. “You have never complained of Anders’ healing before.”  
  
Fenris winced, readying for an argument, but Hawke’s voice was soft, kind. Anders was a good distance away, sulking while Merrill tried to engage him in conversation.  
  
“I was… remembering,” Fenris murmured. “The name Hadriana. I… cannot stomach the touch of magic just now.”  
  
_Filthy magic_ , he’d almost said but didn’t. There was hurt in Hawke’s eyes regardless, and he finally pulled his hand away. Fenris couldn’t fathom why he wanted so hard to please _this_ mage. Fenris pushed himself to his feet, and Hawke followed.  
  
"This Hadriana isn't someone you like, I take it?" The words were flippant but the tone gentle.  
  
Fenris scowled at the ground, white fringe falling to hide his eyes. "She was my Master's apprentice. Danarius must have sent her.”  
  
Gauntleted fists clenched, aching to strangle, to bruise, to _kill_ , but the ground was already littered with fresh slaver corpses.  
  
“We probably should have kept one of them alive to ask where she is hiding,” Merrill said.  
  
“Oops,” Anders added drily.  
  
Fenris glared at him. “Careful, mage,” he growled, taking a few menacing steps forward. He still itched to _hurt_ , and the Abomination was too tempting a target.  
  
Anders glared right back. “What? I meant ‘oops’ as in ‘too bad those assholes died painfully’. I'm no more fond of slavers than you, you know. Not that my opinion matters since I’m a _mage_."  
  
Fenris scoffed. "You mean you wouldn't like to have someone at your beck and call? To cater to your whims? You'd love to have someone like me call you ‘Master’, and you know it."  
  
They were in each other’s faces now, and Fenris hated that he had to look up at Anders. Hawke hovered nearby and exchanged a glance with Merrill.  
  
"You know, from anyone else, I would interpret that as a come-on," Anders replied sweetly. "And then I'd tell you that I'd rather be the one calling _you_ 'Master'."  
  
A choked sound died in Fenris' throat, and Anders cackled.  
  
"Ignore him, Fenris," Hawke said, wrapping an arm around his shoulders again. Fenris’ cheeks still felt burning hot, but he had the pleasure of watching Anders' smug expression wilt.

"He's lying anyway, Hawke," he said, eyes on Anders. "It's not Master he'd ache to call me, but Ser'."  
  
It was his turn to cackle as the Abomination sputtered, and then Hawke was stepping between the two of them and trying to talk down a fuming Justice.  
  
"Oh, Isabela would have loved this," Merrill sighed.  
  
“Stop that!” Hawke snapped. “We’re still on the job, if you haven’t noticed, and I’d rather we not all kill each other before it’s done! Plus I’m the only one not glowing, and I feel left out!”  
  
“I’m not glowing either!” Merrill called out, waving at them.  
  
Fenris and Anders exchanged another glare over Hawke’s shoulder, but at least the Abomination’s eyes were no longer blue.  
  
“And when we get back to Kirkwall, we’ll see about ferreting out this Hadriana.”  
  
* * *  
  
“Pay up, Blondie.”  
  
“What? But I haven’t even—!”  
  
“Let me guess: two Serpents? Best hand you’ve had yet, Blondie, but still nothing against a full set of Songs.”  
  
Anders threw down his hand with a sigh. “Not fair,” he groused. “I can’t even accuse you of hiding cards in your beard.”  
  
“Of course not,” said Hawke, laying his cards down and sliding over Varric’s winnings. He didn’t seem too put out over his own terrible hand. “He hides them in his chest hair.”  
  
“Now Hawke, how many times do I have to tell you to stop staring my chest?” Varric tutted.  
  
“Until you stop liking it.”  
  
Anders shook his head. Tarnished copper caught the torchlight as he counted his coins and slid the lot over to Varric. His chair wobbled as he stretched, then again when he sat back and stared miserably at his last two coins.  
  
Across the way, Hawke looked at him sympathetically. “Next round is on me,” he said, tweaking Anders’ half-ponytail as he passed. Noise spilled into the room when he opened the door, then filtered out when it closed.  
  
“I really need to stop playing against you,” Anders muttered.  
  
“It _is_ getting a bit expensive for you. And you and I both know you only play to get close to Hawke.”  
  
Anders looked up, stare sharpening on Varric, whose smirk dared him to tell him otherwise. Anders cleared his throat, shifted in his seat. “That’s… that’s not—”  
  
“Let me stop you right there, Blondie. You have a million tells.”  
  
Heat painted his cheeks and ears red, and Varric chuckled.  
  
There was a set of footsteps on the stairs, and the door opened and closed with the same spill and seal of sound. The steps were too soft and slow to be Hawke, Anders knew. He didn’t even need to look over his shoulder to check.  
  
“Hey, Broody.”  
  
And now Anders didn’t want to.  
  
“Varric.”  
  
A scrape of a chair against floor, and then Fenris was sitting next to him. Anders edged his chair away with an annoyed look. They didn’t bother with pleasantries. His chair wobbled again.  
Justice stirred in the back of Anders’ head, drawn to the scent of lyrium like a bloodhound to… well, _blood_.  
  
Justice wasn’t thrilled with the analogy.  
  
“Rough day?” Varric asked.  
  
And a rough night, Anders suspected, judging from the puffy, bloodshot state of Fenris’ eyes. His body was one long curve, hunched over the table around a half-empty bottle. Anders wondered if Fenris had nightmares too and tried not to feel a vicious sort of satisfaction at the thought.  
  
“It’s Hadriana,” he growled. “I almost had her.”  
  
It took a moment for Anders to place the name. Then he remembered: last week, the Wounded Coast, slavers.  
  
“What? When?”  
  
Fenris scowled through a long pull of his drink. Anders could smell the wine on his breath when he spoke. “Just now.”  
  
“The old slaver pens?” Varric said. “Broody, I told you not to go after her alone.”  
  
“What does it matter? I was already too late!” Heavy glass made a solid thud against the table. “She was gone! With no trace of where she was going next!”  
  
His shouting was made less fearsome by the high-pitched sneeze that followed. Maybe Anders should tell him to at least dust off the pillaged wine bottles before drinking them.  
  
He exchanged a look with Varric. The dwarf sighed, stubble scratching his palm as he wiped a hand over his face. “Do you think she’s still nearby?” he asked.

Fenris shook his head, more in frustration than denial. “I do not know. She might have gone back to Tevinter to report to Danarius. Or she might be having me followed. Maybe she’s waiting for me back at the mansion!”  
  
“Or maybe your cheering optimism scared her off,” Anders muttered.  
  
“If only _all_ mages were so easily dismissed,” Fenris sneered. Anders made a face. He could practically tell the wine’s vintage from the smell of his breath.  
  
Justice didn’t mind the proximity half as much, and Anders told him to hush.  
  
“What’s this about all mages?” Hawke kicked the door closed behind him, balancing three drinks. He slid a tankard of (regrettably nonalcoholic) cider in front of Anders with a smile that warmed the mage down to his toes.  
  
At the sight of Hawke, Fenris calmed, sagging back in his seat. Hawke reclaimed his seat across from the pair of them, next to Varric.  
  
“Listen, Broody,” Varric said, taking his drink from Hawke. “If she’s still in or around Kirkwall, my contacts will find her. If she’s not, then hey. That’s one less thing to worry about, right?”  
  
Fenris grumbled something unintelligible. Hawke frowned at the lot of them.  
  
“Are we talking about Hadriana?” he asked.  
  
“Yes,” Anders said. “Fenris is sulking because he hasn’t killed her yet.”  
  
Overexposure made Anders immune to Fenris’ glares. “I’d be more than happy to take my frustration out on another mage in the meantime,” Fenris growled.  
  
“Now, Fenris. Hawke has been nothing but good to you.”  
  
Another growl. Anders was growing immune to those too.  
  
“Oh, but Fenris is _more_ than welcome to take out his ‘frustrations’ on me,” Hawke interjected, his voice a teasing rumble Anders could feel in his bones. Hawke smirked at Fenris, who cleared his throat and hid a flustered look behind a long pull of wine.  
  
Anders watched the exchange and pretended his stomach wasn’t twisting into knots. Varric gave him a sympathetic look and quietly switched their drinks.  
  
* * *  
  
The minstrels who described elves as elegant, graceful creatures had clearly never seen an elf drunk. Fenris wobbled into his stolen mansion, tripping over broken tiles and only keeping his feet with a hand on the wall. The place was empty and deathly silent aside from him. No slavers were lying in wait.  
  
Hawke had walked him to the door, and Fenris could still feel the mage’s breath on his cheek, his arm a line of heat around Fenris’ middle.  
  
“You should come back to my place.” Words whispered at the shell of a pointed ear. “It’s safer, you know. Fewer mushrooms.”  
  
And Fenris had considered it. Warm arms and a soft touch were weaknesses he didn’t know he had, and he couldn’t say he’d regret a night in Hawke’s bed. A night in a _mage’s_ bed, however, even a mage like Hawke…  
  
Fenris couldn’t remember what excuse he’d made. In the dark, Hawke’s hands and beard had felt too much like Danarius’, and he’d allowed one sloppy, drunken kiss before retreating inside and closing the door in Hawke’s face.  
  
The air had felt thin as he’d tried to breathe.  
  
“He’s not him,” Fenris reminded himself. “And not her.”  
  
With a groan, Fenris collapsed face-first into his pillow, his head and heart heavy. He pressed his fingers to kiss-bruised lips and prayed the demons would let him sleep tonight.


	3. Behind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a dream last night that Justice took over writing this story. There was a lot of capslock, shouting, and everyone ended up dying. I told him that you can't kill off the main characters of a series _in a prequel_ , but he just said something about MAGE RIGHTS and killed off Fenris.
> 
> ~~And now the weather...~~

If all hangovers were like this, Fenris vowed he’d never drink again. His head was a knot of pain with threads that ran down his back, his arms, his legs. Everything hurt, and if he had his way, something would die to pay for it.  
  
Except that, to kill something, he had to be upright, and Fenris’ aching body was having none of that nonsense. Especially his stomach, which gave a nauseating _clench_ when he moved, manning a one-organ rebellion determined to keep him horizontal.  
  
“ _Venhedis_.”  
  
Fenris admitted defeat and curled onto his side, shivering under the blankets. The fireplace in the corner was dark and barren, and for the barest moment, Fenris wished he had magic so he could light it from his bed. Cursing himself for the foolish thought, he fell back to sleep to the sound of rain on his rooftop and on the floor where the sun had bled through yesterday.  
  
  
  
A few houses down in the gutter, Hawke was faring a little better.  
  
“Ugh.”  
  
The rain water smelled suspiciously like compost, and the boots splashing mud on his face looked suspiciously like Varric’s.  
  
“Morning, Sunshine.”  
  
That voice sounded suspiciously like Varric’s, too.  
  
“ _Maker_. Where am I?”  
  
“At the right house, if on the wrong side of the wall. I’m rather impressed you got _that_ far, honestly.”  
  
It wasn’t often Hawke had the chance to look up at the dwarf. No wonder he shaved. Hawke would shave too if he had such a magnificent chin.  
  
“The mud reminded me of Ferelden,” Hawke said dryly, pushing himself up onto his haunches.  
  
Maker. His mother would kill him if she saw the state of his clothes. A thump of a tail on the ground told him that the warm lump at his back had been Moose, his Mabari. Hawke patted the dog as Moose snuffled his face, as pleased to see his Master as he was every morning, mud, sour breath, and all.  
  
Varric steadied Hawke as he wobbled to his feet. “Let’s get you inside,” he said. “Bodahn’s making pancakes.”  
  
“I _love_ pancakes.”  
  
“You’ll need ‘em,” Varric replied, expression suddenly grim. “My contact found a guy who knows Hadriana. Thought we might pay him a visit.”  
  
That made Hawke think of Fenris and a drunken kiss, and he grimaced. “Ah. Yes.” He bit his lip. “After pancakes, though?”  
  
“After pancakes.”  
  
As he shambled inside, rain dripped off his nose and sharpened his hair into points along his forehead. Varric followed, looking damnedly refreshed and the opposite of hungover, Maker-smite-his-soul.

* * *  
  
“ _A battering ram of a woman_ ”, Isabela had once called Aveline, and that battering ram was bearing down on Hawke, jaw set and arms folded. Anders didn’t envy him. Varric shuffled to stand next to him, watching and cutting an apple into slices.  
  
“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me,” she said, stare intent.  
  
Hawke smiled sheepishly, head ducked and eyes large in a recalcitrant if impish look Anders could never say no to. For a moment, he wished he’d let Hawke suffer through his hangover. He deserved it for being such a gorgeous bastard.  
  
“Sorry, Aveline,” Hawke said. “I merely assumed you’d be busy and didn’t wish to bother you. You know I’ve missed you terribly.”  
  
Aveline smiled, but that was somehow worse. “That’s sweet,” she said. “Bullshit, but sweet.”  
  
“Only the best bullshit for you, darling.”  
  
She scoffed, and the tension broke, her pose relaxing. “Alright, Hawke. But just tell me what happened.”  
  
“Happened?”  
  
Varric handed Anders an apple slice, and the two munched together.  
  
“With Fenris.”  
  
Hawke affected an innocent look Anders didn’t believe for a second. “I don’t know what you could possibly mean.”  
  
“Mhmm. Which is why we’re chasing down this Hadriana _on his behalf_ without him.”  
  
Hawke’s gaze darted down and to the side.  
  
“His tell,” Varric muttered around an apple slice. Anders hummed in agreement.  
  
“In fairness, I knocked at his door and called out, but he ignored me.”  
  
Anders sighed. “What did you do?” he asked. “Did you mention the plight of mages? _That_ always gets me ignored.” And not just by Fenris, he thought but didn’t say, darting a look at Aveline.  
  
“No, there wasn’t… That is, I don’t think anything I _said_ was the problem.”  
  
More avoiding eye-contact, and now Hawke was neatening the stack of papers on Aveline’s desk. Varric offered Anders another slice of apple, but Anders shook his head. “Hawke.” No argument there, in that tone.  
  
“I may have kissed him,” he muttered. “And he _may_ have scurried inside and slammed the door in my face.”  
  
Anders wanted to slam something else in his face. Varric grabbed his wrist, and Anders blinked down at him. “Don’t glow,” he whispered.  
  
“Lovely. So you want to bring him this woman’s head on a pike as a token of your affection?”  
  
Anders may have sounded bitter. Varric may have squeezed his wrist harder. Hawke may have failed to notice both.  
  
Hawke shrugged guiltily.  
  
“Now, Hawke,” Varric teased, “there are other, more subtle ways of declaring your love than bringing Fenris someone’s head on a pike.”  
  
“Yes, but they’re so much less romantic.”  
  
 _ **It’s better this way,**_ Justice told Anders without an ounce of sympathy. _**He distracts you from our Cause and perhaps he could convince the elf of the plight of mages where we have failed.**_  
  
“ _I_ don’t need convincing,” Anders muttered to himself, earning an odd look from Varric.  
  
 _ **It is better this way.**_  
  
There was no room for argument, and Anders knew he was right.  
  
“Very well. We’ll find this Hadriana,” Anders said. “But you know that we’ll have to let Broody kill her or he’ll kill _you_.”  
  
Aveline pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’d rather there be _arresting_ instead of killing, but I have no jurisdiction in this matter.”  
  
“Come on, Aveline,” Hawke said, “what’s one little vengeful murder between friends?”


	4. From Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One word: Hadriana.

As a healer and a fighter, Anders was used to the feeling of blood on his hands, the viscous texture that dried and flaked and cracked along the creases of his palms. And the slaver blood on his hands looked the same as a beggar’s, as a king’s.  
  
As _Hawke’s_.  
  
His hands were the only thing keeping his friend’s (his _love’s_ ) intestines inside his body. He couldn’t lose him like this, not in a piss-stained, Darktown alley, not to the lucky swing of a coward’s knife, not after he’d faced down ogres and dragons and lived.  
  
Aveline and Varric hovered nearby, silent and still amid cooling corpses. Hawke’s eyes were wide, unfocused, his face ashen. He was in shock, and suddenly Anders couldn’t remember any of his skills, his spells as a healer.  
  
“Hawke. Oh, Maker, _Hawke_.”  
  
 _ **Focus.**_  
  
Justice was clear-headed where he wasn’t, and he forced Anders to take a breath. Right. This was just another patient. He’d healed worse.  
  
He pushed his magic into the wound, fingers slipping along Hawke’s torn intestines as he held them together, magic knitting the tubes back in place. Next came the layers of fat and muscle, the layers of skin, and Anders pushed and _pushed_ the magic into him, past his breaking point, past when his fingers started to shake.  
  
Varric’s hand on his shoulder brought him back to himself. “Alright, Blondie,” he said, voice rough and shaky. “That’s enough. He’s okay.” Anders pushed a little longer, until Varric’s hand squeezed, grip just this side of painful. “ _Anders_.” Varric never called him by name. Anders blinked, snapping back to himself and rescinded his magic, blue light fading. Varric kept his hand there for a moment longer.  
  
Hawke looked up at him with glittery, dazed eyes, face still pale from blood loss but his breathing evening out. He offered Anders a wan smile.  
  
“Oh look. I’m still not dead.”  
  
“You’re an ass,” Anders snapped, but Hawke just chuckled.  
  
“Hey.” Hawke’s expression softened. Anders must have looked as terrified as he felt, because Hawke sat up gingerly and wrapped an arm around Anders’ neck, pulling his fellow mage against him. Anders rested his forehead on Hawke’s shoulder and let out a shuddery breath. Under the blood and sweat, he smelled like skin and spice and _Hawke_.  
  
“I’m fine,” Hawke murmured in Anders’ ear. “I’m alright.” He ruffled Anders’ hair and pulled back.  
  
 _ **Distraction**_ , Justice reminded him when Anders was reluctant to sit back.  
  
Aveline steadied Hawke when he stood, and Varric steadied Anders. He still itched to touch Hawke, to check him over and over to make sure he was okay.  
  
“Well,” said Hawke, “aside from the blood loss, I’d consider that a success.”  
  
Anders shot him a look. Learning where Hadriana _might_ be hiding wasn’t worth the trade of almost losing Hawke.  
  
“Do you think almost dying makes it more romantic?” Hawke asked Varric, far cheerier about the concept than he had a right to be. Anders was still just shaken enough to be irritated by it.  
  
Varric scoffed. “Maybe,” he said. “But chances are Broody would just call you an idiot.”  
  
“And for once, we’d agree on something,” Anders said. Hawke pouted.  
  
“Speaking of Fenris,” said Hawke, “I think we have enough information to bring to him.”  
  
“After some rest,” Anders cut in, scowling. “You’ve lost a lot of blood, and I’ve lost a lot of mana _because_ you lost a lot of blood. We can always give chase tomorrow.”  
  
“She might not be there tomorrow.”  
  
“Tonight, then,” Anders compromised, sighing. “And only if you rest.”  
  
“Yes, Mother.”  
  
Anders gave him a rude gesture before heading out of the alley. “I’m going to my clinic,” he said. “Come collect me when it’s time to continue this farce.”  
  
He had to finish shaking apart, and he planned to do it in the comfort of his home.

* * *  
  
Someone was knocking at his door again. Fenris counted each knock as it bounced around his achy skull. Too many knocks in a row to be Hawke’s, something that both relieved and disappointed him. It was therefore unimportant and could be ignored. Granted, had it been Hawke, he likely would have ignored it anyway.  
  
Another string of knocks, this one louder, more impatient. Fenris didn’t know the thud of a fist against wood _could_ sound impatient, but then he also didn’t know he could feel it inside his skull. He sniffled, wiped at his runny rose with his sleeve and massaged the bridge of his nose and down under his eyes, where a build-up of pressure throbbed under his skin.  
  
The knocking stopped and was replaced by the sound of a door slamming open and booted feet on tiled floor, on creaky steps. Fenris growled and pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the way the world spun and grayed, and snatched up his sword. He tore open the bedroom door and aimed the sword at the intruder’s throat.  
  
Anders let out an undignified squeak, staring cross-eyed down at the blade an inch from his throat. “Is this how you greet everyone, or was this ‘hello’ tailored to me?”  
  
Fenris narrowed his eyes at the mage. Rivulets snaked down Anders’ chest and arms from rain-darkened hair and sodden feathers. Blond strands clung to his hollow cheeks.  
  
Fenris considered keeping the sword there at his throat, considered pressing forward just a little, but his muscles were crampy and weak. He lowered the blade to hide the way his arm started to shake.  
  
“Why are you here, mage?”  
  
“Hawke sent me to…” Anders trailed off, squinting at him. His scrutiny made Fenris itch. “Maker. You look worse than I feel.”  
  
“Hangover.”  
  
Anders chuffed. “Been day drinking again?”  
  
“Not since last night, but you’re giving me incentive to change that.”  
  
Anders frowned, and Fenris was suspicious of the concern he read there. “Still?” he asked. “That doesn’t seem right.”  
  
“It is what it is. Are you going to answer my question?”  
  
“I might. I might not. You could say ‘please’.”  
  
“I could also tear your heart out through your chest.”  
  
“Point taken.” Anders shrugged. “We think we may have hunted down Hadriana for you.”  
  
Fenris’ grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. He was focused on Hadriana, on Danarius and vengeance, but what he asked was, “’We’?”  
  
“Yes. Hawke, Varric, Aveline and myself. Hawke got himself sliced open for the trouble, too, so you’d best appreciate it.”  
  
Fenris had been more surprised about Anders being included in that “we”, but he didn’t say as much.  
  
“Take me to her,” he growled, hefting his sword. He hadn’t changed out of his armor (the bruises on his chest would attest to that), so he was ready to go. He wiped his nose on his sleeve again and pushed past the mage.  
  
But Anders held him back with a hand on his chest. Again he gave Fenris that scrutinizing look.  
  
“In all seriousness, Fenris, you don’t look well. Maybe you should rest and let us handle this.”  
  
Fenris’ brands lit in warning. “Do not touch me, mage. And do not presume to tell me what to do.”  
  
Anders didn’t pull his hand back. He was about to lose it if he wasn’t careful. “Your nose is stuffy,” he said. “I can hear it in your voice. And you’re squinting like you have a headache.”  
  
“And?” Fenris growled, looking pointedly at the hand on his chest.  
  
“Are you hurting anywhere else? Muscles cramps? Chills? Nausea?”  
  
“No,” Fenris lied.  
  
Anders finally pulled his hand away, though he didn’t look entirely convinced. “Alright then.”  
  
“Are we done?” Fenris glared at the mage as he passed, sheathing his sword and heading for Hawke’s mansion.  
  
“Unbelievable,” Anders muttered at Fenris’ back. He didn’t so much as glance back.

* * *  
  
Anders felt underdressed for the occasion.  
  
The mansion was nauseatingly opulent with shining marble floors, frescoes and gilded stucco on the walls. The ceilings vaulted towards the heavens like a mini Chantry, and Anders thought of his tattered, threadbare clothes and his tattered, threadbare patients and wanted to tear it all down.  
  
The place belonged to an acquaintance of Hadriana’s, one that wanted into Danarius’ good graces and the good graces of the magisterium in general. Anders wondered if the owner were secretly a mage or a relative of a mage.  
  
The sprawling halls were too quiet, even for this time of night. Magic was heavy in the air, the kind of dark, evil magic that tasted like metal and made Anders’ hair stand on end.  
  
“Why do I have the feeling they’re expecting us?” Varric muttered.  
  
“Because they probably are,” Fenris growled.  
  
They crept from room to room, the stench of foul magic growing stronger. Justice was restless in the back of Anders’ mind, and more than once he looked down to see blue striations flash across his skin.  
  
Their search brought them to the basement, which forked out into serpentine tunnels spanning well beyond the borders of the mansion owner’s property.  
  
“I think these might lead to Darktown,” Anders said, looking about. It reminded him of the tunnel leading out of Hawke’s wine cellar.  
  
“Smugglers,” Fenris growled. “Slaves or lyrium, no doubt.”  
  
Anders smelled it before he saw it. In the next room, a desiccated corpse lay across a bier, the drip, drip of its last blood catching in the cracks between stone in the floor.  
  
“My guess would be slaves,” Hawke said, voice choked from the stench.  
  
They found more dried-out corpses on the way, each one fresher than the last, until finally they came across a living slave, an elf girl with wide eyes and gaunt cheeks whose knees shook when she stood. She wrung her hands and rambled before alighting on one question: “Are you my master now?”  
  
Anders cringed, and Fenris sputtered. Hawke, however, took pity.  
  
“If you go back to Hightown,” he said, “and find the Amell Estate, I can help you.”  
  
Fenris turned to glare at Hawke as she scampered away. “I didn’t realize you were in the market for a slave!”  
  
Hawke met his stare levelly. “I gave her a job, Fenris,” he said, voice firm but gentle.  
  
“Oh. I…” Fenris sagged, pressing a hand to his forehead. “That’s… good. I apologize.” He sounded tired.  
  
Torchlight glinted off beads of sweat on the back of his neck, and Anders frowned. He itched to send him some healing magic, but he remembered Fenris’ reaction the last time he had. If the fool didn’t want magic, he wouldn’t get magic.  
  
Farther down the tunnels, they found a woman standing amid a pile of corpses, the air heavy with the smell of blood and her hands and staff dripping red with it. Her eyes were wide and blue and crazed.  
  
“I knew you’d come for me,” she said.  
  
“Hadriana, I presume,” Hawke said, shifting his grip on his staff. “You look about as crazy as I expected.”  
  
She barked a laugh and swirled her blood-soaked hands. The air _tore_ , and demons stepped out of the Fade. Anders threw down a shield, and Varric readied his crossbow.  
  
Hawke made a fist in the air, and the demons slammed to the ground, stunned and shrieking in pain. Anders pulled him out of the way of a fireball from Hadriana.  
  
“She’s mine,” Fenris growled, tattoos flaring bright. Anders could practically taste the lyrium, and Justice had them both salivating.  
  
 _Distraction_ , Anders scolded smugly.  
  
 _ **Yes**_ , Justice agreed, chastened. Anders decided he would wonder about that later.

A Shade charged him, but he brought up his staff in time to freeze it. Normally Fenris would swing around and shatter whatever he’d frozen, but Fenris was too intent on Hadriana, who laughed and mocked him from the other side of a magic bubble, a bubble that Fenris’ powerful swings were already wearing down.  
  
Anders stepped back from the Shade as the ice around it started to crack. He waited until it had broken free with a roar and sent a bolt of lightning its way, stopping it in its tracks. The ice casing had left the creature wet, and it jerked and shrieked as the water conducted the electricity, cooking it alive. It fell into a clump of ashes.  
  
Varric shot another Shade between the eyes, and Hawke slammed a Rage Demon from wall to wall until it fell limp. Anders decided he couldn’t begrudge Hawke not knowing healing spells if he could do _that_.  
  
He turned at the sound of a woman’s shriek. Hadriana’s shield had broken, and blood welled from a slice across her middle. Fenris glowed bright enough for Anders to see spots, but she caught him in another spell before his next swing could connect.  
  
Red bands of energy constricted Fenris, pinning his arms tight to his chest and _squeezing_. He choked on a cry of pain.  
  
“I’ve been looking forward to this,” Hadriana crooned.  
  
Anders smelled smoke, and he looked at Hawke to see the air around him shimmer with heat. A wave of force magic barreled into Hadriana hard enough to make her bounce off the wall behind her, her back connecting with a sickening crack. Anders looked at the anger in Hawke’s eyes and wasn’t sure if he was more terrified or aroused.  
  
Fenris fell to the ground in a heap, drawing in huge lungsful of air. Crackling coughs racked his body, and he spit up bile and mucus.  
  
“Not as much as I have, witch,” he growled, wiping his lips and pushing himself shakily to his feet. She scrambled to stand, reaching for her staff, but he kicked her in the stomach, right over the wound he’d already given her. She cried out in pain.  
  
Fenris raised his sword over his head, and Anders cringed, waiting for the blow and the spray of more blood.  
  
“Stop!” Hadriana pleaded. “You do not want me dead!”  
  
“There is only one person I want dead more,” Fenris said, but he didn’t swing. His muscles were tensed, ready to act, but he held still and waited.  
  
“I have information, elf,” she said, panting through her pain, “and I will trade it in return for my life.”  
  
Fenris scoffed. “What? The location of Danarius? I’d rather he lose his star pupil.”  
  
“You have a sister.”  
  
The sword dropped but not in a killing blow. Fenris arms fell as though nerveless.  
  
“She’ll say anything to save her arse,” Anders warned. “Don’t listen to her.”  
  
“I know that!” Fenris snapped, but the look on his face said he didn’t. Hawke looked at Anders and shook his head sharply. _Don’t argue_ , that look said. Anders grit his teeth.  
  
“I am not lying,” said Hadriana, sitting up. “Her name is Varania. Let me go, and I will tell you where she is.”  
  
Fenris looked at Hawke, looking suddenly helpless. Hawke shook his head. “This is your call,” he said softly, reaching as though to touch Fenris’ shoulders only to pull back at the last minute.  
  
Fenris nodded curtly, squaring his shoulders. He sheathed his sword and bent over Hadriana, clawed gauntlets clenching and unclenching in a reminder that he hadn’t put away _all_ his weapons.  
  
“So I have your word?” she asked, looking at him askance. “You’ll let me go?”  
  
“Yes,” Fenris drawled. “You have my word.”  
  
Anders didn’t believe him for a second.  
  
“She is in Qarinus,” Hadriana rattled off, “serving a magister by the name of Ahriman.”  
  
“A servant,” Fenris said, his voice and face unreadable. “Not a slave.”  
  
“She’s not a slave,” Hadriana confirmed, nodding.  
  
Fenris stared at her, still with that unreadable look. “I believe you,” he said, his tone cold.  
  
Anders tasted lyrium again. He watched her eyes grow wide as a glowing hand tore out her heart.


	5. Ill

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or: The Part Where Mav Finally Gets to the Prompt

Fenris had watched her die. He’d felt her heart’s last beats, felt it grow still under his touch, but none of it quelled his anger. If anything he felt… disappointed.  
  
A sister. He hadn’t thought he had any family left. Or hadn’t hoped, rather. Even now, hope was a dangerous thing that he didn’t want.  
  
Already the adrenaline was leaving him, and he felt shaky, unsteady on his feet. The aches from this morning were still there under newer, more obvious injuries. He considered asking the Abomination for healing, but his stomach turned at the thought of a mage’s touch.  
  
His stomach kept turning, and he closed his eyes a moment to steady himself, to keep everything down.  
  
He looked up at his companions and felt judged by their stony silence. “We are done here,” he growled, pushing past them.  
Hawke grabbed his arm and held him back. A mage touching him, restraining him. He fought the urge to cut off that hand. “Do you want to talk about it?” Hawke asked.  
  
Fenris looked up at him incredulously. “No, I don’t want to talk about it!” he snapped, yanking his arm free. “This… this could be a trap! Danarius might have sent her just to tell me about this ‘sister’! Even if he didn’t, trying to find her would still be suicide!”   
  
He wiped his brow with a shaky hand. No. Finding this “sister” was nothing more than a fantasy.   
  
He looked at Hadriana’s corpse. _That_ at least was real. “All that matters,” he said, voice unaccountably shaky, “is that I finally got to crush that bitch’s heart.” He told himself that made up for losing the chance at family. “May she rot, and all the other mages with her.” He turned away from Hawke, swallowing down the angry lump in his throat.  
  
“And here I thought you were unreasonable.” Fenris could hear the eye-roll in Anders’ voice.  
  
“Do you want to be next?” Fenris said, but the anger was already leaking out of him.   
  
Hawke laid a hand on his shoulder, his touch gentle now instead of restraining, but just as electric and terrifying. “Let’s get out of here,” Hawke murmured. Fenris remembered the feel of Hawke’s lips against his, remembered the heat of his body, and how he’d wanted it and wanted to run from it at the same time.  
  
Fenris shrugged off his hand. “Don’t touch me, mage,” he said. “I don’t need your comfort. You… you saw what happened here. You see the bodies. Mages will always find some reason, some excuse to do this. It’s only a matter of time before you do the same. Maker knows your Abomination already has.”  
  
“Hey, now, I’ve never—!”  
  
“Shh, Blondie.”  
  
“Fenris,” Hawke said, voice pained. His hand hovered in the air where Fenris’ shoulder had been. “I’m not Danarius. I’m not ever going to _be_ Danarius.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Fenris said, even though it did. “What does magic touch that it doesn’t spoil?”  
  
He looked at Hawke, watched his face fall, his shoulders sag. Fenris cringed and squeezed his eyes closed. He just kept hurting this man, this man who was kind to him, who was more than he deserved.  
  
This man who was a _mage_ and could break him more easily than Danarius.  
  
It was all too much. His head was pounding, and he just wanted to rest and to _forget_.  
  
“I… need to go.”  
  
He retreated from Hawke for the second time, still unsure what he was running from.

* * *

Snow was starting to mix with the rain to make wet slush. Fenris could see his breath as he walked, but he felt hot, boiling inside his leathers and pulled at his armor to let more cold air hit sweaty skin. He dreamed of a bed, of a cool pillow under his pounding skull and a roof to keep the rain off his head. The mansion was just down the street, but it seemed an eternity away.   
  
He considered the merits of lying down in the road and sleeping there. Perhaps more than “considered”. Hands caught him as the ground rose towards his face.  
  
“Whoa there.”  
  
Not Hawke. That was the first thing his mind registered.  
  
“Mage.” That was the second.  
  
“Ah good. You’re still conscious.”  
  
Anders was holding him under the armpits. Fenris’ head knocked Anders’ chin when he looked up.   
  
“Don’t touch me,” he growled, pulling weakly away. “Let me go.”  
  
“Why, you’re welcome, Fenris,” Anders said sarcastically. “I was _happy_ to keep you from falling on your pretty face, Fenris.”  
  
“Don’t call me pretty,” Fenris said more loudly. “And don’t _touch_ me!”  
  
“Fine.” Anders let him go, and Fenris slumped to the ground like a ragdoll, his tailbone hitting cobblestone. The sudden movement made his stomach _twist_. He squeezed his eyes shut, sweat rising cold off his skin, and just breathed until the nausea passed.  
  
“Oh, Maker. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d fall that hard.”  
  
Anders squatted next to him, hands hovering. Fenris inched away, scowling.  
  
“Whatever this looks like, I’m actually trying to help,” Anders said, “despite that lovely monologue on mages and your general assholery. You get a free pass today. Dealing with that crazy witch for years would make me growly and ornery too.”   
  
“I am not ‘growly and ornery’.”  
  
“Says the elf, with an ornery growl.”  
  
Fenris hated that Anders barely blinked at his glares anymore.  
  
“I do not need your help, mage. I…”   
  
Maker, Fenris was _tired_. Too tired to argue with the meddlesome apostate. Rain fell like needles on his skin, but he just wanted to lie down.  
  
“Fenris.” Fingers snapped in front of his face. Fenris blinked up at Anders. The mage’s brows were knit in concern. “You look like you’re about to pass out in the street.”  
  
“What is it to you?” Fenris coughed wetly, chest aching.  
  
“Fenris, you’re sick. Let me help you back home.”  
Home had a bed. Home was _warm_. Funny, but he could have sworn he’d felt boiling hot a moment ago.  
  
“May I touch you?” Anders asked.  
  
“What?” Fenris jerked back, eyes wide.   
  
Anders sighed. “You clearly have a problem with people touching you right now. Or mages, at least. I don’t need to know why and I’m not going to ask. I want to get you out of this weather, but I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do. So, may I touch you? Or would you rather I fetch someone else? Someone less… magey?”  
  
Fenris was about to say he didn’t need help, but pride turned out to be less of a priority than getting warm. “No magic,” he said.  
  
“No magic,” Anders agreed.  
  
“Then you may…” Fenris paused to cough and clear his throat. “Then you may assist me if you deem it necessary.”  
  
Anders smiled. “Oh, I deem it.”  
  
Fenris didn’t realize he was shivering until the mage was draping a familiar feathered coat over his shoulders. It was as wet as his armor but warmer.  
  
“Come on, then. Your arse must be pruny by now.”  
  
Anders grabbed him under the armpits again and hauled him to his feet, pulling an arm around his shoulders. Fenris held the coat to him with one hand.  
  
“Maker. You’re heavier than you look.”  
  
“Says the delicate mage flower,” Fenris muttered.  
  
Anders snorted a laugh. For the second night in a row, a mage walked Fenris home with an arm around his waist. He didn’t know why, but this time it didn’t bother him.


	6. Asleep

That night, he dreamed of Hadriana, of a faceless sister and a bearded mage who was Hawke at one point and Danarius another, then somehow both of them at once. He dreamed of scratchy beards against his neck and the uncomfortable pull of magic on his brands. He dreamed of mocking laughter, of pain, of hunger.  
  
He also dreamed of stomach cramps and hurling into buckets.  
  
But then he dreamed of soft hands and a gentle voice and a washcloth wiping the sweat from his face. Sometimes he called for that voice in his dreams, and it answered, hushing him. Sometimes he reached for those hands, and they reached back, cupping his. Each time, Fenris’ dreams stilled, and he sank deeper for a while.  
  
* * *  
  
Holes in the roof splintered the dawn into orange shards of light, and with it came some clarity. Dreaming melted into waking, and it reminded Fenris of when he lit his brands and walked between the mortal world and the Fade.  
  
“ _Domine_?” he called out. The name hurt in his throat, each syllable scraping like cut glass.  
  
“Nope, still just me,” said the gentle voice he’d dreamed about. The soft hands were tucking another blanket over his curled body, then wiping the hair back from his face.  
  
Fenris knew that voice.  
  
“Can you drink something?”  
  
Fenris nodded and struggled to push himself up. The soft hands were attached to strong arms that caught him when he fell back and held him upright.   
  
“ _Mihi ignosce_ ,”he murmured. _I’m sorry_.  
  
The voice hushed him, and the hands pressed a cup to his lips. It hurt to swallow, but the water was soothing.  
  
“ _Te novi_ ,” Fenris murmured, squinting up at his caretaker in the soft light. _I know you._  
  
“Well, that’s something,” the voice said wryly.  
  
“ _Novi_ …” He was laid gently back against the pillow. A palm touched his forehead, skin almost cold against his. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch.   
  
“Go back to sleep, Fenris.”  
  
* * *  
  
The next morning, a yawning Anders answered the door to a confused Hawke.  
  
“Good morning,” he said, tugging wild, sleep-mussed hair behind his ears.  
  
“I… good morning?” Hawke peered past Anders into the mansion before looking at him with eyes narrowed. “Did you finally kill Fenris? Because I have to be honest, I always assumed he would end up killing you first.”  
  
“No killing happened.” Anders considered for a moment. “Well, not here anyway. At least not last night. Or this morning.” He frowned. “It’s sad that I have to be that specific.”  
  
“Then why are, uh…” Hawke trailed off, looking suddenly uncomfortable. “Sweet Maker, please tell me you two didn’t…?”  
  
Anders blinked at him, waiting for him to finish the thought, but Hawke just kept raising his eyebrows higher and higher until they threatened to fly off his face.   
  
“Oh. _Oh_.” He made a face. “Oh, _no_. No, no, no.”  
  
He hated how relieved Hawke looked at that. Or rather he hated that Hawke was relieved because of _Fenris_.  
  
“Broody’s taken ill,” Anders explained. “I found him doing a wobbly striptease in the street and brought him back here.”  
  
“Is he alright?”

Anders sighed, running a hand through his hair. “He should be. Idiot isn’t very good at taking care of himself, so he’s a bit worse off than he had to be. He had a nasty flu and went wandering off in the rain, killing magisters. You know what kind of food I found in here? Wine, more wine, and one block of moldy cheese.” He tutted and shook his head, exasperated.   
  
Hawke gave him a wry look. “You’re one to talk.”  
  
“I don’t have a mansion. Or locks.” Though now that he thought of it, Anders couldn’t remember the last time he ate. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I think his lungs are a bit infected now, so he’s going to need more care.”  
  
“Can’t you heal him or something?”  
  
Anders gave him a flat look. “Gee, Hawke. I hadn’t thought of that.”  
  
“I… sorry.” He ducked his head.  
  
Hawke peered around Anders again. “So… can I come in, or are you going to let me freeze out here until we both get sick too?”  
  
“Oh. Right.” Anders took a step back to let Hawke in before reconsidering. “Wait, no. He’s still contagious. You shouldn’t be in here.”  
  
“And _you_ should?”  
  
“I’m a healer. I’ve already been exposed to everything.” And yet he was never sick. He wondered if he had Justice to thank for that or if he had just been lucky.  
  
Hawke looked less than happy, but he nodded. “He probably doesn’t want to see me anyway,” he muttered. “Just… let me know if I can help?”  
  
“Sure,” Anders said, certain there wasn’t anything Hawke could do. Then he reconsidered that as well. “Wait.” Hawke stood, half turned on the stairwell, breath ghosting in the morning chill. “That ex-slave girl. She says she can cook, right? Can she make soup?”  
  
* * *  
  
Fenris woke exhausted, his chest aching and rattling with every breath. The gentle hands were back and so was the familiar voice, rambling all sorts of nonsense that washed and slid off of him.  
  
“Then we saw the Broodmother,” it was saying, “and I had a new standard for horrifying. I mean, the tentacles were one thing. I was told to _expect_ tentacles. But her face split _sideways_!”  
  
“Mage?” The word slurred off Fenris’ tongue.   
  
The voice paused, and callused fingers adjusted the damp cloth against his forehead. Fenris squinted up at the man standing by his bed, unshaven face and tired eyes resolving into Anders.  
  
The mage’s lips quirked in a half smile. “Well, hello there, Broody. Are we lucid yet?”   
  
Fenris looked about blearily and recognized the wreckage as his room. The hole in the roof had been crudely patched with a strip of fabric, but daylight still streamed in. A fire blazed in the corner.  
  
“What are you doing here?” he asked. The rush of sound hurt his throat, but he pushed through it.  
  
“Studiously not using magic,” Anders replied, leaning against the wall. “Against my better judgment. You’ve managed to come down with quite the nasty strain of the ‘plague’, you know.”  
  
“Mage,” Fenris repeated, eyes unfocused. Anders was the last person he needed to tend to him.  
  
“Whoa there.” Anders pushed Fenris back down into his mattress when he started to sit up. “If you’re not going to let me heal you, we’re going to have to do this the annoying, old-fashioned way. That means you in bed. Ha, never thought I’d say that to _you_.”  
  
“You are not my mother,” Fenris grumbled, even as he sank back against the pillow.  
  
“Thank the Maker for that. This would still be faster with magic, you know.”  
  
The damp cloth from earlier wiped the sweat from his face and neck before a new one was placed at his brow. A sound like a purr broke in his throat, but he was too tired to notice. “No magic,” he murmured, eyes slipping closed.   
  
Anders muttered something unflattering but obeyed.

* * *  
  
It turned out it was hard to hate someone who was as weak as a kitten. Fenris was all noodly limbs when he slept, sprawling where Anders would have curled, taking up more space than someone three times his size. Under the crackling of his lungs, he made tiny noises in the back of his throat that weren’t quite snores, nuzzling into the pillow when Anders approached. Anders made a note to tease him about it later.  
  
Anders set down the bowl of brothy soup and a glass of water on the floor by the bed, lip curling when he set the bowl on something soft that squished under its weight.  
  
“Oh, ew.” He set the bowl aside. “Mushrooms. Mushrooms are growing out of the floor. Sweet Maker.”   
  
“They’re my roommates,” came a sleep-rough voice from the bed. “Try not to step on them.”   
  
Anders looked up, startled. From where he hunched, he was level with the one eye Fenris didn’t have mashed into the pillow. It was open, still glossy but focused on him.  
  
“Roommates,” Anders said wryly, settling on his haunches. “Do they pay rent?”  
  
A slow blink. “No.”  
  
“Well, to be fair, you don’t either.”  
  
Fenris gave him a lazy, strangely unfettered smile, then rubbed at his chest, wincing. Anders laid the back of his fingers against Fenris’ forehead. Still warm but not as alarming as last night. Anders moved his hand to Fenris’ exposed back and ignored the pull of lyrium to count each breath, surprised Fenris hadn’t threatened to harm him yet.  
  
“It looks like your fever broke,” he said. “Does breathing hurt?”   
  
Fenris grunted something that sounded like agreement before coughing into his fist. Anders nodded, handing him a kerchief.  
  
“It will for a bit,” Anders explained, “but that crackly feeling means the mucus is breaking up, which is good. It also means lots of coughing, which is also good if annoying.”  
  
Fenris groaned something that sounded like, “Murrgh.”  
  
Anders patted his shoulder. Fenris still didn’t threaten him. “I have soup?” he offered.  
  
Another “murrgh”, but Fenris sat up of his own power. Anders looked him over as he handed him the bowl.  
  
“You look better,” he said, scooting back to lean against the wall. They sat in identical L-shapes, Anders on the floor and Fenris on the bed.  
  
A grunt of acknowledgement between sips of soup. Fenris paused to clear his throat and lick his lips. Half turning towards Anders, he asked, “How long?”  
  
Anders shrugged. “Two nights, give or take. Hawke’s new employee made the soup.”  
  
Fenris’ brow furrowed and then smoothed. He’d likely forgotten about her. He went back to the soup without a word, and Anders smiled, leaning his forehead against the corner of the bed. The elf still looked a bit gray, still sniffled noisily from time to time, but at least he was lucid.  
  
“I remember…” Fenris started then trailed off. He cleared his throat and poked at his soup. “Two nights, you say. Were you here the whole time?”  
  
Fenris twisted to look down at him, his scowling mask discarded for once.   
  
Anders shrugged one shoulder, smothering a yawn. “Well, yes,” he said. “Does that surprise you?”  
  
“Should it not?”  
  
Anders gave him an odd look. “What would you expect me to do?” he asked, a bit tetchily. “Leave you to freeze to death in the street?”  
  
Anders would be lying if he said the thought hadn’t occurred to him. There’d been a moment—barely a _moment_ , really—where he’d thought of Hawke and wanted to. He wasn’t proud of that.  
  
Rather than reply, Fenris stuffed his mouth with soup.  
  
“Of course you did,” Anders muttered. “Because that’s the kind of monster you think all mages are.”

This is the part where Anders should stand up and passive-aggressively ask if Fenris wanted more soup before storming out the door. But Anders was _tired_ , and the corner of the mattress was soft under his cheek.  
  
Fenris swore under his breath in Tevene, shaking his head at the hole in the ceiling. “It’s not because you’re a _mage_ , but because you and I aren’t…” Fenris trailed off with a growl. “You didn’t need to stay, but you did.” Words tossed over his shoulder without quite meeting Anders’ eyes. “And you didn’t just tend to me. You were…” Anders wondered what he “was”, but Fenris never supplied an adjective. “Anyway you could have… _lessened_ all of this with magic and saved yourself the trouble, but you didn’t. It couldn’t be simply because I’d asked?”  
  
Anders sat up, bent forward until he could see more of Fenris’ face. Anders watched his lips purse in profile, long eyelashes catching the morning light. He was truly unfairly gorgeous, and Anders wanted to hate him for it. He probably would have, if Fenris hadn’t seemed so small and shivery last night, if he hadn’t clung to Anders’ sleeves with white knuckles and murmured pleas and apologies in Tevene.  
  
“Fenris,” he said, “I may not agree with or even like you, but what you want is just as important as what I want. I know what it’s like to have choice taken away, and I believe that everyone should have the freedom to make even horrendous decisions. You keep looking for Danarius in me, and I’ll be damned if I let you find him there.”  
  
Fenris’ jaw muscles fluttered. He glared out at nothing, but his eyes glittered until he rubbed at them, breath hitching. Anders sighed and sat back, leaning against the corner of the mattress again.   
  
“Now stop grumbling and finish your soup.”  
  
Satisfied when he heard the scrape of a spoon, Anders let his eyes slip closed. He only meant to close them for a moment to soothe their scratchiness, but the next thing he knew, Fenris was shaking him awake by the shoulder.  
  
“Mage.”  
  
“Mm?” The empty bowl sat on the floor by his feet. “Do you want more?”  
  
Fenris’ hand was still on his shoulder. Anders looked up to see the elf studying him, eyes softer than he’d ever seen them. The scrutiny made him flush, and he cleared his throat.  
  
“Fool mage,” Fenris rumbled. If Anders didn’t know better, he’d say the words sounded affectionate. “When’s the last time you slept?”  
  
Anders shrugged and scratched the stubble at his chin. Fenris’ hand finally withdrew.  
  
“Exercising your right to make ‘horrendous decisions’, I see.”  
  
Anders smiled awkwardly.  
  
“This is a mansion,” Fenris said, laying back down and closing his eyes. “There are beds. You should avail yourself of one instead of passing out on the floor and risk waking up—how did you put it—‘growly and ornery’.”  
  
Anders blinked, then choked out a laugh. “Making jokes now. Maybe you are still feverish.” Anders pushed to his feet, joints creaking. “That’s not a bad idea, though I tend more towards ‘whiny’ than ‘growly’, I’m told.”  
  
“This I believe.”  
  
“Oh. Ha.” The elf was _looking_ at him again. Anders was used to him glaring, and suddenly he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “Anyway, just make a lot of noise if you need me. I might still sleep through it, but at least it’ll scare off any other squirrels that climb in through the hole in your roof.”  
  
Fenris’ chuckle broke off into a coughing fit. Anders handed him the glass of water before he left. Fenris grabbed his wrist.  
  
“Mage, I…” Anders turned to see Fenris’ green eyes wide and skittery and uncertain. He thought he was about to hear the words “thank” and “you” from Fenris—together, even—but Fenris let go of his wrist and cleared his throat, nodding for him to go.  
  
Anders shrugged and shuffled out of the room, smothering another yawn. He could feel Fenris’ eyes at his back.


	7. Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hawke manages to disappoint everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a lovely Valentine's Day, whether you're single (like me) or with someone you (hopefully) kind of like. ~~I may/may not have celebrated via a racy Fenders poetry battle with[Ywain_Penbrydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd). Epic geekery at its finest~~
> 
> Speaking of Fenders...

Fenris didn’t know what to do with himself. After days abed, he was eager to move, but his weakness relegated him to wobbly pacing around the room, a blanket bunched around his shoulders. He wore nothing but his smalls under it, and that made him think of the Abomination taking off his armor, unbuckling his gauntlets, his chestpiece, callused fingers brushing skin as he peeled off his leggings…  
  
He flushed up to his ears at the thought, that an _abomination_ would touch him, would see him at his weakest and have him at his mercy.  
  
Fenris sat on the bed, suddenly exhausted. To have his back in battle was one thing, but to peel him off the street, to carry him home and to keep guard over his fever-dreams? To be kind and sickeningly gentle and… and...  
  
Fenris cradled his head in his hands, pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw spots.  
  
“Maker.”  
  
He had to stop thinking about the mage.  
  
He was almost relieved when a knock on the front door interrupted his thoughts. He waited, but the knocker didn’t let himself in, and Anders was clearly still sleeping.  
  
His blanket formed a train as Fenris got up to answer the door. He was moving slowly, the stairs a challenge, and when he opened the door, Hawke was on the other side, holding a dish of… something.  
  
“Oh. Hello,” Hawke said. “I see you’re up. Assuming that _is_ Fenris under all the fabric, that is.”  
  
“Nothing escapes you,” Fenris replied dryly. He stepped back and indicated the foyer with a nod of his head. “You should come in before the neighbors suspect someone lives here.”  
  
Hawke obeyed, and Fenris shut the door behind him.  
  
“How are you?” He sounded earnest, uncertain, fingers fidgeting around the edge of the dish.  
  
“Alive.” Fenris paused to cough into a fold of blanket. “Whether that is a good thing remains to be seen.”  
  
“I think I prefer you alive myself.”  
  
Hawke grinned at him coyly. Fenris didn’t know why the look made him think of Anders.  
  
“Where’s your nurse?” Hawke asked, setting the dish down on an end table. It occurred to Fenris that he was being a terrible host, but it was hard to care about that when he was standing in his foyer wearing nothing but a blanket and his smalls.  
  
“Sleeping. Hopefully in a bed.”  
  
“Good. That’s good.”  
  
Hawke straightened the edge of the dish, squaring the edges with the table. The air was heavy with unsaid words.  
  
“Is that more soup?” Fenris asked to fill the silence.  
  
“Yes. Did you like it?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
A smile from Hawke and then more awkward silence.  
  
“Listen, Fenris,” Hawke said. “You must promise not to be cross with me.”

Fenris’ eyes narrowed. “I think I know better than to make _you_ such a promise.”  
  
Hawke offered him a grimacing smile. “True enough.”  
  
“What is it?”  
  
“I wrote to Qarinus and asked about your sister.”

Fenris’ stomach dropped like a stone. “You _what_?”  
  
Hawke grimaced but straightened, standing taller. “I asked about your sister,” he repeated. “It shouldn’t be traced back to you, don’t worry. I just wanted to find out if Hadriana were telling the truth, so you that can decide what you want to do when you’re feeling better.”  
  
“I’m deciding right now,” Fenris growled. “And I want no part in this!”  
  
“Fenris—”  
  
“You had no right to write to her! That was my decision to make!”  
  
 _My choice._  
  
Fenris hated the Abomination for reminding him of what he deserved.  
  
“I know,” Hawke said, hands palm out in a placating gesture. “And I know I should feel guilty, but I don’t. Fenris, you know I’d _kill_ to see my sister again.”  
  
“This isn’t about you, Hawke!”  
  
Hawke winced, hands falling to his sides. “I know.”  
  
“Shouting. Why so much shouting?”  
  
Fenris and Hawke looked up towards the new voice and saw Anders on the balcony, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand. His hair was a ratty mess, flattened against his head on the side he must have slept on.  
  
“Especially at this time of day,” he added. “Some respectable people are still sleeping.”  
  
“It’s the middle of the day,” said Hawke.  
  
“Okay, one respectable person was still sleeping.”  
  
“Where?” Fenris replied. “I see no one respectable here.”  
  
The jest came out with more bite than he intended, but he wasn’t sorry to see Hawke grimace in response.  
  
“Oh, a lover’s spat, was it?” Anders asked with obviously fake cheer. “ _So_ glad I woke up for that.”  
  
“I’ve had enough of mages for one day,” Fenris growled, stomping up the stairs, blanket train following. “I suggest you both take your leave.”  
  
“What?” said Anders. “What did _I_ do?”  
  
“Just go.” Fenris slammed the bedroom door behind him.  
  
* * *  
  
“Of all the ungrateful—! _Ugh_!”  
  
Fire itched at Anders’ fingertips. He was tempted to blow a few more holes in the building.  
  
“Let it be, Anders.” Hawke’s hand was warm and gentle on his wrist, skin a shade darker than Anders’. With a last glare at the shut door, Anders allowed himself to be pulled out of the house and onto Hightown’s cobbled streets.  
  
Hawke looked dejected, rejected. Anders was used to getting the arse-end of Fenris’ temper, but _Hawke_ …  
  
“He had no right to talk to you like that,” he said, hand hesitating over Hawke’s shoulder before falling away.  
  
“No, he had the right, this once.” A grimacing smile accompanied the reply. He shook his head at Anders’ quizzical look. “That’s between him and me.” He gestured at his estate down the street.  
  
“Join me for lunch? You can pet the dog.”  
  
“You keep forgetting I’m a cat person. On purpose, I suspect.” Even so, Anders started walking to the estate at Hawke’s side. He’d been away from his clinic for a while, but he was _tired_ and Justice was being blessedly quiet.  
  
“Cats are just short dogs that have become self-aware.”  
  
Anders chuffed. “You are ridiculous.”  
  
Hawke smiled but threw one last wistful look at Fenris’ mansion. The smile wilted.  
  
“Forget him,” Anders said. Then, feeling brave and stupid, he asked, “Anyway, can’t you think of someone else, more worthy of your attention?”  
  
Hawke slowed, a small smile gracing his lips. Anders slowed with him. “There _was_ someone else I’d considered once,” he said. He looked up at Anders through his lashes, and Anders’ heart couldn’t decide if it wanted to stop or beat harder. “But… it hardly matters. It wouldn’t have worked, and Fenris is… _Fenris_.”  
  
Anders hated the awestruck way Hawke said his name.  
  
“Oh? Well, who was this other person, then?” He hoped that sounded half as nonchalant as it had in his head.  
  
“A good friend,” said Hawke. “Someone who shares a few more of my views.”  
  
Anders’ heart finally decided on pounding faster. “Another mage?” Anders hazarded.  
  
Hawke nodded.  
  
There was sweat on Anders’ palms and a giddy smile on his lips. “What’s stopped you?” he asked.  
  
“I… well. I knew Carver had a thing for her, and…”  
  
Her.  
  
 _Merrill_?  
  
“Anders?”  
  
Hawke was looking at him, and Anders realized he’d stopped walking. “Oh,” he said weakly, struggling to breathe under the weight that crushed his heart. “Sorry. You were saying?”  
  
If Hawke went on talking, Anders didn’t hear a word.


	8. By the Wayside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and its mentions of floor-licking is dedicated to [Ywain_Penbrydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd).

Every day for a week, Hawke knocked on Fenris’ door. Fenris never answered but would throw a wine bottle at the wall to let him know he was still alive. It was a good arrangement, aside from the waste of wine.  
  
Week two, however, saw another mage knocking at his door, and Fenris wondered what it said about him that he’d come to recognize Anders’ knock. Fenris didn’t answer this mage either, but he wasn’t about to waste the bottle at his lips over an _abomination._  
  
The Abomination let himself in anyway.  
  
“At least Hawke had the decency to know when to _fuck off_ ,” Fenris grunted from inside the salvaged wine bottle. Its predecessors littered the foyer, all jagged edges and red stains, Fenris’ very own personal battle field. Anders tiptoed around the mess.  
  
“I don’t know if I would call that ‘decency’ so much as cowardice,” Anders replied. Fenris arched an eyebrow. “Maker,” the mage muttered, nose crinkling. “It _stinks_ in here. I bet I could get drunk just by licking the floors!”  
  
Fenris snorted, leaning back against the wall, legs splayed out each way. “Please do not lick my floors, mage.” He paused and took a sip. “Then again, there’s enough glass amid the wine to cut your tongue to ribbons, so go ahead. It might give me silence at last.”  
  
Anders rolled his eyes. “The Paragon of Charm, you are.”  
  
“Says the mage who keeps coming back.”  
  
Glass crunched under Anders’ boots until they stopped between Fenris’ legs. Looking up, Fenris felt like a pinned bug under the mage’s stare.  
  
“What?” he growled.  
  
“I’m just trying to figure out how you’re not dead yet.”  
  
“The more you talk, the more I ask myself the same of you,” Fenris snapped. “I assume you came here for a reason?”  
  
“Two reasons,” Anders corrected. “First, you’re still my patient, which I’m no more happy about than you, so don’t give me that look.”  
  
“I don’t need a nursemaid.”  
  
“Do I _look_ like a nursemaid to you? Wait, don’t answer that.” Fenris smirked. “I’m just here to see if you were dead, partly dead, or had the possibility of becoming dead in the near future. I’d say option number three, if wine is all you’ve been subsisting on.”  
  
Fenris scowled through white hair. “And the second reason?”  
  
“Arrogant sod,” Anders muttered. “You don’t have to do everything alone, you know.”  
  
“The _second_ reason, mage?”  
  
Anders sighed. “Hawke would rather incur a dragon’s wrath than yours. That’s the second reason.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Anders crouched in front of him. Fenris drew in his legs, folding them in front of him. Amber eyes held none of the softness he remembered ( _imagined?_ ) from fever-dreams. Fenris didn’t know why he ached at the loss.  
  
“You know Hawke wrote to your sister?”  
  
Fenris nodded.  
  
“Well, he heard back from her.”  
  
The news shouldn’t have surprised him, shouldn’t have made his breath hitch, but it did.  
  
Fenris set down the bottle.  
  
“What’s it to me?” he growled. “I didn’t ask him to write to her. I didn’t _want_ him to write to her!”  
  
Anders scoffed. “Yes, you’ve made that clear from your little tantrum the past week. Bravo.”  
  
Glass creaked under Fenris’ grip.

“Glare me to death all you want. You’ve been acting like a child.” Anders squinted down his long nose at Fenris in a way that made his tattoos itch. He wanted to tear that look of condescension from his face! He wanted…!  
  
“Hypocrite!” he growled, wine sloshing as he poked at Anders’ chest. “You would be furious too!”  
  
“Of course I would, but I wouldn’t sulk in a mansion full of… of mushrooms and dead bodies!”  
  
“No, you’d sulk in your _clinic_.”  
  
“So you admit you were sulking.”  
  
Fenris sputtered, grit his teeth around another growl. “Hawke oversteps.”  
  
“Hawke _cares_ about you, and you take him for granted!”  
  
Anders sat back on his heels, looking suddenly embarrassed. It was Fenris’ turn to squint down his nose at the mage.  
  
“It angers you that Hawke pursues me.”  
  
“Yes, it ‘angers’ me!” Anders snapped. “He almost _died_ , you know, hunting down slavers who knew Hadriana. He almost died so that you could kill her. And you were so focused on your Maker-damned vengeance that none of his sacrifices matter, that _he_ doesn’t matter! And he deserves better!”  
  
“It wasn’t vengeance!” Fenris roared. “It was self-preservation! If I didn’t kill her, she would have caught me and brought me back to Danarius! And I’m not free, I’m not _safe_ , until that magister is dead!”  
  
“But Hawke—!”  
  
“Hawke knows that! And of course he deserves better, but I can’t be any more than I am!”  
  
There was buried hurt and fury in Anders’ eyes before he looked away. Jaw muscles fluttered under blond stubble, and magic trembled in the air. Lyrium brands itched in reply, and Fenris’ heart pounded.  
  
Fenris cared for Hawke, he really did, but in that moment, he found Anders’ anger more electrifying than Hawke’s adoration.  
  
“You’re in love with him.”  
  
Still half-turned away, Anders coiled inward, wrapping his arms around his middle, chin pressed to his chest. “I’d be a fool not to be,” he said, somehow turning the confession into an accusation.  
  
Fenris thought of them together, two mages, two humans, tangled in an embrace, dark hair and blond against pale, scarred skin. They were evenly matched, twin souls searching for the same things, understood and understanding each other from little more than a word or a look. By rights, it should be _them_.  
  
It made his stomach twist.  
  
They sat in silence and stared at the same stain on the floor. Fenris was aware of the sound of Anders’ breathing, of the hush of fabric brushing fabric as he shifted. After a time, Fenris cleared his throat and offered an olive branch.  
  
“This letter my sister sent. This is the news Hawke sent you to give me?”  
  
Anders half nodded, half shrugged. “Thought I might as well deliver it. You hate me anyway, so what was the difference?”  
  
Hate. That must be why his proximity had Fenris’ heartbeat quickening.  
  
Fenris wet his dry throat with another sip of wine. “What did she say?” he asked.  
  
“That she wants to meet you.”  
  
Fenris cursed under his breath. Hawke had said the letter wouldn’t be traced back to him. Had he lied?  
  
 _Varania_. Fenris wanted the name to be familiar to him, but it conjured up nothing. “I can’t,” he said.  
  
He didn’t know what to do. Even now, he was used to being commanded, was used to the hateful safety of making no decisions himself.  
  
What if Danarius knew of that letter? What if “Varania” didn’t exist?  
  
“I _can’t_.” He almost bumped heads with Anders when they both tried to stand at the same time.  
  
“Alright. Don’t panic. No one’s forcing you to—”  
  
“I am _not panicking_!”  
  
“Yes, I can tell by the shouting and hyperventilating.”  
  
Fists clenched and knuckles whitened. Anders backed up, boots crunching on more glass, and Fenris remembered how to breathe.  
  
“How you want to handle this is up to you,” Anders said, sounding too damned reasonable. He shrugged. “I’m just the messenger.”  
  
More glass crunched, tracing Anders’ steps as they carried him to the door. Fenris didn’t know why the thought of him leaving made him panic more.

“Mage.”  
  
Anders turned.  
  
“What would _you_ do in my situation?”  
  
Anders blinked, eyebrows drawing up. “You’re asking me?”  
  
“You’re the only one here.”  
  
Anders smiled and considered. “I don’t know, to be honest,” he said. “My parents abandoned me. My own father delivered me to the Templars. If one of them asked, I’d tell them to fuck off.” Fenris prayed this didn’t turn into another rant. “But my sister?” Anders’ smile turned sad. “I had two, you know. Both younger. Scrawny, knobby-kneed little things with fly-away hair. That’s all I remember of them.”  
  
Fenris saw his throat-muscles move around a swallow.  
  
“I’d want to meet them, you know,” Anders went on. “I’d wonder what kind of women they’d grown up to be. But in the end, I’d probably be a coward and let the opportunity pass.” His laugh was a broken, self-deprecating thing. “I’d run away, like always.”  
  
Fenris wondered if that was what he was doing: _running away._  
  
“Fenris?” The elf looked up, caught the mage’s wry, parting smile. “Take my advice, and don’t do what I’d do. Don’t run away.”  
  
With that, Anders left Fenris alone again with his wine and with broken glass half-crushed to sand.  
  
* * *  
  
Fenris found Hawke watching Orana cleaning the floor, fingers twitching as though conducting her movements. She must be tougher than he thought to convince Hawke to let her do the cleaning.  
  
“Hawke,” he said before clearing his throat. He still had a lingering cough as a souvenir of his illness, but it was improving.  
  
Hawke half jumped as he turned, eyes darting as though he’d been caught red-handed at something. Considering Orana, he probably thought he was, but Fenris knew him better than to be surprised.  
  
“Fenris!” From embarrassment to charm in a matter of seconds. “Good to see you. You look better! But then the last time I saw you was in a sheet.”  
  
Fenris huffed. “Would you like me to recreate the look so you can compare?”  
  
This time it was Hawke clearing his throat, and it occurred to Fenris that what he’d just said might have… _connotations._  
  
“Ah, that is… I mean…” A coughing spasm saved him from muddling through the rest of that sentence. Hawke moved closer, hand outstretched and brow furrowed, but Fenris waved him off.  
  
He didn’t realize Orana had left until she’d returned, pressing a glass of water into his hand. With a curtsy, she returned to her cleaning. “Thank… you?” He took a sip to give his hands something to do.  
  
“So,” Hawke said, smiling crookedly. “Came for a visit?”  
  
“Actually, I… wished to talk to you about what you’d said. What Anders had told me, that is.”  
  
“About your sister?”  
  
“Yes, I… remember what you said about missing family,” Fenris said haltingly. “I’ve… never had a family to miss, and I think, perhaps, that was safer. But I want to. To have something I’d miss, that is. Freedom, I’m realizing, means having something to lose.”  
  
Hawke smiled like he was trying not to. “I’m glad to hear that, Fenris.”  
  
“I’d like to meet her.”  
  
Hawke stopped trying to hide his smile. “Then you will,” he said. He gestured for Fenris to follow him. “Stay for lunch. I’ll help you write her.”


	9. To Pieces

Fenris stretched his fingers, felt the slide of sweat from where it had gathered in the creases of his palms. Hawke would have his back, he’d said. Fenris glanced at the corner he sat in, and Hawke winked back, tipping his tankard in Fenris’ direction. Isabela perched at the bar, and Varric was upstairs in his suite. He didn’t realize he was looking for Anders until he saw he wasn’t there.  
  
He knew Varania when he saw her, and all thoughts of the mage left his mind. He recognized the pale skin and red hair, the noble nose and angled eyes that mirrored his own. He’d rehearsed what he would say, what he would ask, but he was struck dumb by a flash of _memory._  
  
Scabby knees and a child’s laughter, chasing a head of red hair towards a horizon blurred with heat shimmer.  
  
“It really is you.”  
  
“Varania?” Fenris breathed. “I… I remember you. We played in our Master’s courtyard while Mother worked.” Another memory, this time of lying curled in the arms of a dark-haired woman. She sang a lullaby, the sounds vibrating in her chest, under Fenris’ cheek. “You called me…”  
  
“Leto. That’s your name.”  
  
His next breath caught in his throat. He’d been Danarius’ “Little Wolf” for so long.  
  
Varania stood, fingers picking at the table’s scarred wood. He stared at her, trying to commit her face to memory, to fill the holes that had been left, but she was barely looking at him.  
  
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Why are you so…?”  
  
Fingers brushed Fenris’ arm, and he turned to find Hawke at his side.  
  
“Fenris, we have to get out of here,” the mage whispered, brows knit. Fenris glanced at the bar to see Isabela slipping into the shadows. His fingers itched for the hilt of his sword.  
  
“Ah, my little Fenris,” said a voice that still hounded his nightmares. “Predictable, as always.”  
  
A gray-bearded mage sauntered down the stairs, flanked by masked guards.  
  
Fenris wished he could say that remembered the true meaning of the word _hate_ when he saw Danarius, but it was the word _fear_ he remembered instead. Fingers shaking, he ignored the instinctive urge to drop to one knee.  
  
“I’m sorry it came to this, Leto,” Varania said as she inched back and away.  
  
Betrayal was cold steel slipped into his stomach.  
  
“You _led_ him here!” he growled, taking a menacing step towards his sister. He was barely aware of Hawke’s hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Now, now, Fenris,” Danarius all but purred. “Don’t blame your sister. She did what every good Imperial citizen should.” He stepped to Varania’s side.  
  
Fenris _knew_ this had been foolish. He was alone, truly alone, and he should have known better than to hope otherwise.  
  
He steeled himself, squaring his shoulders and clenching his fists. “I never wanted these filthy markings, Danarius,” he said, “but I won’t let you kill me to get them.”  
  
Danarius chuckled. “Oh, how little you know, my pet.” His gaze slid to Hawke, the corner of his lips quirking. “And this is your new Master, then?”  
  
“Fenris doesn’t belong to anyone,” Hawke said with a comforting degree of venom.  
  
“Do I detect a note of jealousy?” Danarius asked. “It’s not surprising. The lad is rather _skilled_ , isn’t he?”  
  
Shame curled like nausea in Fenris’ gut.  
  
“Shut your mouth, Danarius,” Fenris growled, markings flaring. He didn’t need Hawke hearing… _knowing…_  
  
He was grateful the Abomination wasn’t here for that, at least.  
  
Danarius sighed as though greatly put-upon. “The word is ‘Master’,” he scolded, drawing out his staff. Varania slid back and away, retreating to the shadows.  
  
Magic sang in the air. Or rather, Hawke’s magic sang, sunlit and heady, while Danarius’ slithered, its coppery taste hitting the back of Fenris’ tongue.  
  
Fenris moved on instinct, his sword in his hands and arcing through the air before he even realized battle had been joined. He shore off a guard’s head with one heavy sweep, blood spouting in stuttery pumps and painting his armor red.  
  
Blood magic washed over Fenris’ skin in swirls of red. His mind fogged, sight blurring, and Danarius’ voice whispered soothing, _sensible_ words in his ear. Why would he be fighting his own Master? It made no sense.

But Fenris knew this spell— _hated_ this spell worst of all—and he shoved back against his “Master’s” influence with a snarl. “I am no longer your slave!”  
  
Fenris didn’t have long to enjoy the look of frustration on Danarius’ face before Hawke was diving in, staff crackling with lightning. Fenris trusted Hawke to hold his own as he side-stepped the swipe of a blade. He knocked his newest attacker back into Isabela’s knife.  
  
Isabela smirked at Fenris over the dying man’s shoulder, her knife twisting in his heart. A third guard slumped over with a crossbow bolt between the eyes, and Fenris looked up to see Varric on the stairwell, winking at him over Bianca and aiming his next shot at Danarius.  
  
The two mages circled each other. Danarius shot a bolt of energy, and Hawke deflected. Hawke sent him a wave of force, and Danarius resisted. Testing each other’s limits, Fenris knew.  
  
Bianca’s bolt bounced off an invisible barrier. Danarius sent a fireball in retaliation, twitching his fingers in Varric’s direction as if he were a stubborn fly. Fenris watched, heart in his throat, as Hawke pressed his advantage.  
  
Lightning caught Danarius in the gut. He staggered back with a grunt, but not before dropping a spell of his own. Red mist curled about Hawke, and he froze, eyes going wide and glazed.  
  
“No,” Fenris murmured, _willing_ Hawke to resist. But Hawke’s eyes were still glazed, red mist still swirling about his head, when he looked back at Fenris. Magic crackled at Hawke’s fingertips, and Fenris shook his head. “Hawke, don’t!”  
  
The world shifted, tilting on its side, and Fenris’ back met the floor, his skull cracking back against ale-stained wood. He tasted blood when he came to, his tongue sore and swollen in his mouth, and found Danarius standing over him.  
  
“See how much trouble you’ve caused, my little wolf.”  
  
Danarius gestured around at the wreckage, capsized tables and cooling corpses. Hawke stood over Isabela, air still swirling red around him. She’d relinquished her knives, hand palm-out in the air as she sent Fenris a helpless look. On the stairwell, Varric was nowhere to be found.  
  
A boot pressed Fenris back into the floor when he tried to sit up. “Now, my pet,” said Danarius, “are you going to come with me willingly, or am I going to have to take it out on your new friends, hmm?”  
  
Fenris wondered if he could reach into his own chest, crush his own heart. “I…” He swallowed. “Do not hurt them, Master.”  
  
He closed his eyes. The foot left his chest, but he still felt its weight. Freedom had been sweet while it lasted.  
  
Then there was the sharp smell of ozone Fenris associated with the Fade, and blue light flashed through the screen of his eyelids.  
  
“ _ **You cretin! You befoul the name ‘mage’!**_ ”  
  
Blue light blinded Fenris when his eyes snapped open. Anders—no, _Justice_ —loomed over Danarius, eyes a fiery blue and skin fissuring with Fade light. Fenris scrambled to his feet and snatched up his sword. The sudden movement made his brain rattle in his skull, but he shook it off.  
  
“What—?” Danarius choked.  
  
Blood magic washed over Justice, a clash of red smoke and lightning. He didn’t so much as blink.  
  
Justice grabbed the magister by the throat while Danarius struggled to cast, fingers weaving jerkily. Justice squeezed harder, and Fenris waited for the crunch of bone, for a dying gurgle or the sear of magic. What he got was Justice shoving Danarius onto his knees in front of him like an offering.  
  
Blue eyes bore into Fenris’, bright enough to make him see spots.  
  
“Fenris,” Danarius sputtered. “Aid your master!”  
  
Fenris didn’t question. He didn’t wait. He snatched up his sword and shore off Danarius’ head.  
  
“You are no longer my master,” he said to Danarius’ head as it rolled away.

Fenris looked up to see the last of the smoky blue fading from Anders’ eyes. He was spattered with Danarius’ blood, hair and eyes wild and breathing hard. Their eyes locked over what was left of Danarius’ corpse, and something thrilled in the pit of Fenris’ stomach.  
  
The mage looked away to rub a sleeve over his face, smearing the blood along his cheek. “Maker,” Anders groaned. “Can’t a man lose at cards without being interrupted?”  
  
Fenris didn’t trust himself to speak. He grunted and cleared his throat, sheathing his sword.  
  
“You’re bleeding.” Anders reached for Fenris’ head before stopping, his hand hovering in the air a moment before dropping back to his side.  
  
Fenris remembered Anders’ words at his sickbed, remembered how the thought of magic had repulsed him. He glanced at the headless corpse at his feet. “You may heal me,” he decided.  
  
“Oh, I _may_ , may I?” Anders huffed through a small smile.  
  
Fenris nodded regally, and Anders reached up again, this time letting his fingers light on the back of Fenris’ head. His skin was cold, and his touch made the hair at Fenris’ nape stand on end. They were close, close enough for Fenris to smell the cider on Anders’ breath, close enough for Fenris to see how Anders’ eyes looked gold in this lighting.  
  
He didn’t realize Anders had cast until he was pulling away. And he didn’t realize he’d caught Anders’ hand until the mage was giving him a puzzled look.  
  
A pained groan caught Fenris’ attention, and he glanced over to see Hawke clutching his head, sitting on the ground next to Isabela. “Maker’s _balls_ ,” Hawke cursed. The red mist was gone.  
  
Then all Anders’ focus was on Hawke, his hand slipping from Fenris’, and Fenris remembered where he was and why he was there.  
  
Pushing the mages from his mind, Fenris turned his glare on Varania. She shrank back into the corner as he approached, her eyes wide and terrified, reflecting the blue of his lyrium markings.  
  
“I had no choice, Leto.”  
  
That laughing, red-haired child from his memories was gone.  
  
“Stop calling me that!” he snapped.  
  
Varania held her hands out between them, palms out. “He was going to make me his apprentice,” she explained, eyes pleading for him to understand. “I would have been a magister!”  
  
Fenris’ lip curled. “You sold out your own brother to become a magister?”  
  
Varania straightened, hands trembling as they clenched into fists. “You have no idea what we went through! What I had to do since mother died! This was my only chance!”  
  
A magister. His own _sister_.  
  
They were all the same. His brands flared blue, and rage and despair demons crowded him, filling the spaces between him and Varania, Hawke, _Anders_.  
  
“And now you have no chance at all,” Fenris growled. His fists clenched so hard they shook, his vision flaring white. He could kill her like Hadriana, could crush her heart the way she’d crushed his.  
  
“Fenris.” Hawke was at his side again, Anders hovering behind him. “Don’t kill her. Please.”  
  
Fenris was obeying Hawke’s (a _mage’s_ ) command before he realized it, his lyrium markings dimming, going dormant. He hated himself for obeying, even as he was relieved the decision was made for him.  
  
He turned away from them both, his shoulders rigid.  
  
“Get out of my sight.”  
  
Varania scurried past him for the door, only to stop and look back.  
  
“You said you didn’t ask for this,” she said, “but that’s not true. You wanted it. You competed for it. When you won, you used the boon to have mother and I freed.”  
  
Another memory of lyrium-white pain.  
  
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked in a broken voice.  
  
“Freedom was no boon,” Varania sneered. “I look on you now, and I think you received the better end of the bargain.”  
  
Varania left, this time without turning back.

Slowly, Corff went back to serving drinks, the patrons put away their hidden weapons, and the minstrel in the corner started playing again. Fenris’ companions hovered around him, their silence suffocating.  
  
“You meddlesome fool,” Fenris said to Hawke. He didn’t have the energy to be angry, didn’t have the energy to feel anything. “I told you I wanted no part in this.”  
  
Hawke cringed, eyes screwing shut. “Fenris, I—”  
  
“Broody,” Varric interrupted, clapping Fenris on the shoulder. “Let me buy you a drink. You look like you need one.”  
  
Hawke opened his mouth to speak, but Varric shook his head.  
  
“Hawke,” Anders murmured, hand on his fellow mage’s elbow. “Leave it. Come on.” Hawke let Anders steer him towards the door but not without giving Fenris one last, pained look.  
Fenris watched them go, Anders’ hand still hooked under Hawke’s arm, close enough for his feathered pauldrons to brush Hawke’s shoulders.  
  
“You’re staring, Broody.”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
The dwarf was smirking up at him, Bianca slung over his back. Fenris fought to keep his expression neutral.  
  
“I am not,” Fenris muttered, folding his arms across his chest.  
  
Varric snorted but didn’t argue. “Let’s get you that drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter to go!


	10. In Love

“You’re looking awfully miserable for someone who’s just gotten his freedom.”  
  
Fenris slammed his drink down with more force than he meant. “I earned my freedom long ago,” he growled, eyes narrowing. Drink dulled everything but Varric’s face and the scrape of gauntlets against metal tankard.  
  
“And you’ve been looking over your shoulder ever since,” Varric replied. “Until now.”  
  
Fenris blinked at the dwarf, turning these words over in his mind. _Free_. He’d been too upset over Varania, over _Hawke_ , to think about it. It wasn’t the relief he thought it would be.  
  
“Now you look even _more_ miserable.”  
  
Fenris grunted into his drink. “Now what?” he muttered.  
  
Varric shrugged. “Up to you, Broody. That’s kind of the point.”  
  
“I wouldn’t know where to start,” he murmured, clawed finger drawing shapes in the table’s wood, deepening the scars it already had. He thought of blue eyes, of the Fade yawning open and swallowing him whole. “Why was the Abomination here?” he asked, aiming for contemptuous and missing.  
  
“I invited him,” Varric said with the friendliest of smiles. “I had a feeling things would go sour, from the way Hawke was fretting. Don’t know why it took the glow-stick so long to jump in, though.” He frowned into his ale the way Fenris frowned down at his fingers.  
  
“Considering whether to let Danarius take me, I suspect.”  
  
“Careful, Broody, your bitterness is showing.” Fenris noted that Varric didn’t argue. “Look, he saved our asses in there. Maybe we should try giving him the benefit of the doubt.”  
  
“I owe him no such thing!” Fenris growled.  
  
“It’s not about owing, Broody.” Varric scoffed and waved a hand. “He saved your ass, and you would have saved his. Probably with a lot of swearing and posturing and denying just how big of a crush you have on him, but—”  
  
Fenris sputtered, tattoos flaring and dying on instinct. “Crush? There is no _crush_.”  
  
“Now, see, your ears twitched just then. That’s your tell.” Fenris fought the urge to hide his ears and folded his arms instead. Varric’s grin was devilish. “Broody and Blondie, huh? We could call you… Brondie? Nah, that doesn’t work. How about… Bloody? _Ha_. Maybe that works too well!”  
  
“Cease your mocking, dwarf!” Fenris’ face felt hot, his skin itchy and ill-fitting under his armor.  
  
Varric tsked, unfazed. “I’m not mocking, Broody,” he said. “Just pointing out your stubbornness.”  
  
“Stubbornness?” Fenris scoffed. “That, what, I’m not interested in the Abomination? Because I’m _not_.”  
  
“Ear twitch.”  
  
“ _Arrgh, fasta vass!_ ” Metal splintered wood as Fenris slammed his fists into the table. Varric raised an eyebrow. “Why should I want to be with him? He is a hypocrite! He is arrogant and foolish and… and…! _Argh_!”  
  
Another slam, and Fenris turned away, wiping his face with his hand. There were so many things he hated about the Abomination, but he remembered a wistful smile, soft words about younger sisters and a stolen life. He remembered brown eyes, large and soulful as they watched Hawke. He remembered gentle hands and the shape of their calluses against his forehead. He remembered the smell of him, the touch of him, imagined the taste of him…  
  
“I hate him with every fiber of my being,” Fenris said, voice and fists trembling.  
  
“Shit, Broody,” Varric said, stunned into a whisper. “This isn’t just a crush, is it?”  
  
“Be silent, dwarf, or I shall rid you of your tongue.”  
  
The door slammed behind him as he stormed out, the rest of his drink forgotten.

* * *

By the time Hawke answered the door, Fenris wished he’d taken the rest of the drink with him.  
  
“Fenris?” He was dressed in his house robes and slippers, hair damp from a bath and looking ridiculously domestic for a mage-for-hire.  
  
“Hawke.” Fenris pushed past him into the mansion, hands clenching and unclenching. “You’ll want to send your servants home for the night.”  
  
“What? Fenris, what are you—?”  
  
Punctuation came in the form of a kiss. It was sloppy and awkward, part teeth and drunken fumbling, and Hawke clutched at his arms hard enough to bruise. It tasted of smoke and magic, of the Hanged Man’s watered down ale and Fenris’ wine, of the blood Fenris hadn’t washed off yet.  
  
The world spun, and his back hit the wall, Hawke’s body lean and warm against his. Fenris’ hackles raised at the thought of being pinned, but he pictured Danarius’ head, free from its body, and allowed himself to relax into the moment. His tormentor was dead, and Fenris wouldn’t let him deny him what little joy there was in this world.  
  
It was easy to lose himself in Hawke, in the touch of hands and lips that was somehow both passionate and reverent, the scrape of facial hair and the shush of fine fabric bunched under his claws. Anders wouldn’t be so gentle, Fenris thought and immediately struck from his mind.  
  
How they’d made it to the bed, Fenris would never know. Hawke peeled off his armor, one piece at a time, his lips never leaving Fenris’ skin. Fenris’ pulse jumped in his throat, and he told himself it was because of the heat of the moment, not because this was the first time in a long time, and certainly not because he—  
  
 _Stay in the moment_ , he reminded himself. Here, with Hawke. Because Anders had been right: he’d be a fool not to love Hawke.  
  
But as skin touched skin, he remembered Danarius’ touch. As he stared over Hawke’s shoulder, legs hooked over hips, he remembered Varania’s red hair and his mother’s— _his mother’s_ —tired eyes. As his nails bit into Hawke’s back, he remembered _everything_ , only to be consumed by pleasure and sparking white.  
  
* * *  
  
He curled up on his side, his heartbeat easing as he stared at the wall, grasping for wisps of memory and grabbing nothing. Hawke’s body was sweaty and too-warm against his back.  
  
“I love you,” Hawke whispered against his neck, and Fenris trembled with the feel of it, mage’s breath upon his skin, speaking words he’d never deserve. He pictured another mage, pictured stubble and a cheeky smile mouthing at the knobs of his spine. His breath hitched as he pulled away.  
  
“I shouldn’t have come here,” he said, shrinking away. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Fenris?”  
  
Hawke’s eyes were wide and hurt and altogether the wrong shade, in the wrong face.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Fenris repeated, as though those two words could undo this newest mistake. Those same words spilled out, over and over, as he made his retreat.  
  
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”  
  
* * *  
  
Fenris padded down rotting steps into the stink of Darktown. He hated coming down here, hated how his feet turned black with soot within minutes, hated how he had to watch his steps to avoid getting splintered wood and glass in his feet.  
  
He hated how he found the lantern unlit but still smoking and Anders awake but drawn.  
  
The mage barely glanced at him and went about stripping the cots. Fenris would have believed his show of nonchalance if his fingers hadn’t twitched for his staff.  
  
“Fenris,” he said in stiff greeting.  
  
“Mage.”  
  
Anders paused to look at him expectantly, impatiently, one eyebrow arched and arms full of stained cloth. “Can I help you?”  
  
Fenris knew this was a bad idea. Another mistake to add to today’s pile of mistakes. His heartbeat was loud in his ears, so loud he wondered if Anders could hear it across the room.  
  
“It… occurs to me that I never thanked you. For your help while I was ill.” He avoided Anders’ stare and looked instead at the mage’s feet.  
  
“It occurs to me too,” Anders said archly. “And saying that you haven’t thanked me doesn’t count as _actually_ thanking me, you know.”

Anders’ boots had seen better days. The soles were worn down on the outside edges—his feet turned in a bit when he walked—and the left boot was missing a buckle.  
  
“I am aware.”  
  
“So…?”  
  
“So… thank you. Mage. _Anders_.”  
  
Anders set his bundle down on the floor and leaned his hip back against the desk, eyebrow still quirked expectantly.  
  
“And?” he prompted. Fenris squirmed, his stare dropping back to Anders’ boots.  
  
“And… I realize that you are… correct. You are not Danarius.”  
  
Fenris finally looked back up when the silence grew uncomfortable. Anders stared at him for a long moment before he huffed and shook his head. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, turning to tear another sheet from a cot.  
  
“What is?” Fenris said to his back. “That I would pay you a compliment?”  
  
“That you would consider saying I’m ‘ _not_ a slave-owning psychopath’ a compliment!”  
  
Fenris growled, yanked the sheet from Anders’ hands so that the mage would look at him again. “You are impossible! What do you expect from me? To drop to my knees and say that all mages are wonderful? You _saw_ Danarius and Hadriana! You know what they are like!”  
  
“And you’re only just now realizing that I am _not_ like them?” Anders snapped, eyes flashing blue for the barest of moments. He was standing dangerously close, close enough that Fenris had to look up at him, close enough for Fenris to kiss him or crush his heart.  
  
Fenris had a hand twisted in Anders’ coat before he knew which one he wanted more. Anders tensed but didn’t move, chin tilted in defiance.  
  
“I…” He let go of Anders’ coat and took a step back. “I don’t know why I bothered coming here. You can’t even be civil.”  
  
Anders scoffed, straightening his feathers. “Really, Fenris,” he said, his voice bitter, harsh. “You come here in the middle of the night with bruises on your neck and smelling like Hawke and sex, and you expect me to be ‘civil’?” Fenris clapped a hand to the side of his neck before he could stop himself. Anders continued straightening his clothes long past the point he needed to. “You know how I feel about him. Are you here to gloat?”  
  
“No!” Fenris was tempted to grab him again so he could shake some sense into him.  
  
“Then why are you here?”  
  
“Because it should have been you!” Fenris blurted. His words turned the air to lead. It felt heavy in his lungs, choking in his throat. He wondered, horrified, how this had happened.  
  
He couldn’t make sense of the look Anders gave him, part surprise, part doubt, part… _something_. “With Hawke?” Anders said. “ _Ha_. We both know I’m not his first choice. Turns out I’m not even his _second_ choice, you know.”  
  
Hawke, always Hawke.  
  
Anders sounded so _miserable_ , and Fenris didn’t have the heart to correct him. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he said in a small voice. “I am sorry. Forget I was ever here.”  
  
Fenris stumbled over a cot in his haste to leave. There was wine enough in his tattered mansion to erase this moment from existence, if not the ache in his heart.  
  
If there was one thing Fenris was good at, it was running away from mages.  
  
  
 **Epilogue**  
  
“Wait, hang on!”  
  
Varric paused mid-sentence to quirk an eyebrow at Isabela. “Yeah?”  
  
“So in your story, the King loves the Knight, the Knight loves the Knave, and the Knave loves the King, but none of these attractive, virile young men end up with one another? _What the blazes kind of story is that_?”  
  
“An unfinished one,” Varric answered, eyes crinkling as he took a drink.  
  
Aveline and Isabela leaned forward across the table, twin looks of hope in their eyes. “Well, how does it end?” Aveline asked.  
  
Varric glanced to where Hawke sat alone at the bar, beard grown haggard and unkempt, as Merrill sidled over to him, all sweet and earnest and bumbling, and he smiled. “Well,” he said, “I suspect the King would find his Queen, or at least the Ace in the hole.”  
  
“What about the Knight and the Knave?” Aveline prompted.  
  
Varric considered Anders and Fenris, those stubborn idiots, and finished his drink with a long pull. He licked his lips. “Tell ya what, ladies,” he said. “Buy me another round, and we’ll see how the story goes.”  
  
 **End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me, guys! 
> 
> There's a chance I'll continue this series at some point, if inspiration strikes, so keep an eye out. Right now, I'm working on a collaborative piece with [Ywain_Penbrydd](http://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd) (as those of you poor souls following me/him/us on tumblr are already aware), so keep an eye out for that as well. 
> 
> Aaand that's two eyes, which is the most most people have. Just keep them both open. In fact, just keep staring at my AO3 page until something happens. Remember to blink.
> 
> In the meantime, for those of you needing some Happy Times to make up for this clusterfuck of angst, I recommend [HeroMaggie's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/HeroMaggie/pseuds/HeroMaggie) fics involving Anders in weird outfits, since I may/may not have prodded her into writing them. ~~I regret nothing.~~


End file.
